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LECTIONS  FROM  CaRLYLE 


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SELECTIONS 


FROM 


C  A  RLY  L  E 


EDITED    BY 

HENRY   W.    BOYNTON,    M.A. 

INSTRUCTOR   IN  ENGLISH   IN   PHILLIPS  ACADEMY,  ANDOVER,   MASS. 


Boston 

ALLYN     AND     BACON 
1896 


Copyright,  1895, 
By  henry  W.   BOYNTOK 


Nortoooti  ipnas 

J.  S.  Cushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith 
Norwood  Mass.  U.S.A. 


PREFACE. 

The  present  volume,  it  is  believed,  includes  within  its 
narrow  limits  material  adequate  for  the  elementary  study 
of  Carlyle  in  his  earliest  and  most  fruitful  period.  The 
notes  are  planned  in  the  main  to  give  aid  rather  than 
information  or  opinion.  By  the  frequent  quotation  of 
supplementary  or  illustrative  passages  wherever  it  was 
practicable,  the  plan  has  been  to  let  the  author  annotate 
himself.  Occasionally  it  has  seemed  natural  to  call  atten- 
tion to  some  characteristic  mode  of  thought  or  of  expres- 
sion, but  in  neither  case  has  a  set  analysis  been  attempted. 
The  editor's  suggestions  to  the  teacher  who  may  use  this 
book  are  three :  First,  that  some  sort  of  insight  into  the 
character  of  the  man  Carlyle  is  essential,  not  only  as  a 
commentary  upon,  but  as  an  introduction  to,  the  study 
of  his  work.  Second,  that  a  good  deal  of  additional 
matter  should  be  read  aloud  to  the  class,  with  a  view 
to  familiarizing  them  with  peculiarities  of  manner  which 
are  obstacles  only  to  the  unaccustomed  ear.  And  third, 
that  all  systematic  discussion  of  style  be  reserved  until 
the  student  has  had  a  chance  to  form  an  opinion  of  his 
own,  and  is  ready  to  take  a  part  in  the  discussion. 

The   reader   is    referred   in   the    notes    mainly   to    such 
authorities   as   may  be   supposed   to   be   accessible  in  the 


iv  Selections  from  Carlyle. 

average  secondary  school.  Eeferences  by  page  to  work 
of  Carlyle's  which  is  not  contained  in  this  volume  are 
uniformly  to  the  Chapman  and  Hall  '  Shilling  Edition.' 

Among  the  books  to  be  read  sooner  or  later  by  every 
student  of  Carlyle  are  Garnett's  Life  of  Carlyle  (Great 
Writers  Series),  which  is  mainly  biographical ;  Nichol's 
Thomas  Carlyle  (English  Men  of  Letters  Series),  wdiich 
deals  more  in  criticism;  the  first  two  volumes,  at  least, 
of  Fronde's  fuller  Life  of  Carlyle;  and  the  Carlyle-Emersoyi 
Correspondence  (edited  by  Professor  Norton).  There  is 
also  an  excellent  paper  by  Leslie  Stephen  in  the  Dictionary 
of  National  Biography,  Vol.  IX.  Two  of  the  most  sugges- 
tive critical  essays  are  to  be  found  in  Lowell's  Carlyle 
(My  Study  Windows),  and  Arnold's  Emerson  (Discourses 
in  America). 

A  full  bibliography  is  given  as  an  appendix  to  Garnett's 
Life  of  Carlyle  (Great  Writers  Series). 

H.  W.  B. 

Andover,  November,  1895. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Burns    ......  1 

Ox  History          . 66 

Boswell's  Life  of  Johnson       ......  80 

>0n  Heroes  and  Hero-worship. 

Introduction    .........  158 

The  Hero  as  Poet 170 

The  Hero  as  Man  of  Letters 204 

Notes .,        ...  247 

V 


SELECTIONS   FROM    CARLYLE. 

BURNS. 

[Edinburgh  Bevieic,  Xo.  96.     1828.^ 

Ix  the  modern  arrangements  of  society,  it  is  no  uncom- 
mon thing  that  a  man  of  genius  must,  like  13utler,  'ask 
for  bread  and  receive  a  stone ; '  for,  in  spite  of  our  grand 
maxim  of  supply  and  demand,  it  is  by  no  means  the  high- 
est excellence  that  men  are  most  forward  to  recognize. 
The  inventor  of  a  spinning-jenny  is  pretty  sure  of  his 
reward  in  his  own  day ;  but  the  writer  of  a  true  poem, 
like  the  apostle  of  a  true  religion,  is  nearly  as  sure  of  the 
contrary.  We  do  not  know  whether  it  is  not  an  aggra- 
vation of  the  injustice,  that  there  is  generally  a  posthu- 
mous retribution.  Eobert  Burns,  in  the  course  of  ISTature, 
might  yet  have  been  living ;  but  his  short  life  was  spent 
in  toil  and  penury  ;  and  he  died,  in  the  prime  of  his  man- 
hood, miserable  and  neglected  :  and  yet  already  a  brave 
mausoleum  shines  over  his  dust,  and  more  than  one  splen- 
did monument  has  been  reared  in  other  places  to  his  fame ; 
the  street  where  he  languished  in  poverty  is  called  by  his 
name ;  the  highest  personages  in  our  literature  have  been 
proud  to  appear  as  his  commentators  and  admirers;  and 
here  is  the  sixth  narrative  of  his  Life  that  has  been  given 
to  the  world  ! 

Mr.  Lockhart  thinks  it  necessary  to  apologize  for  this 
new  attempt  on  such  a  subject :  but  his  readers,  we  believe, 
will   readily   acquit  him ;  or,   at  worst,   will   censure    only 


2    /c^  ^  c^c;  ^^•'\  c' Sehctipm  from   Carlyle. 

the  performance  of  his  task,  not  the  choice  of  it.  The 
character  of  Burns,  indeed,  is  a  theme  that  cannot  easily 
become  either  trite  or  exhausted ;  and  will  probably  gain 
rather  than  lose  in  its  dimensions  by  the  distance  to  which 
it  is  removed  by  Time.  No  man,  it  has  been  said,  is  a 
hero  to  his  valet ;  and  this  is  probably  true ;  but  the  fault 
is  at  least  as  likely  to  be  the  valet's  as  the  hero's.  For 
it  is  certain  that  to  the  vulgar  eye  few  things  are  wonder- 
ful that  are  not  distant.  It  is  difficult  for  men  to  believe 
that  the  man,  the  mere  man  whom  they  see,  nay,  perhaps 
painfully  feel,  toiling  at  their  side  through  the  poor  jos- 
tlings  of  existence,  can  be  made  of  finer  clay  than  themselves. 
Suppose  that  some  dining  acquaintance  of  Sir  Thomas 
Lucy's,  and  neighbor  of  John  a  Combe's,  had  snatched  an 
hour  or  two  from  the  preservation  of  his  game,  and  written 
us  a  Life  of  Shakspeare !  What  dissertations  should  we 
not  have  had,  —  not  on  Hamlet  and  The  Tempest,  but  on 
the  wool-trade,  and  deer-stealing,  and  the  libel  and  vagrant 
laws;  and  how  the  Poacher  became  a  Player;  and  how 
Sir  Thomas  and  Mr.  John  had  Christian  bowels,  and  did 
not  push  him  to  extremities !  In  like  manner,  we  believe, 
with  respect  to  Burns,  that  till  the  companions  of  his 
pilgrimage,  the  Honorable  Excise  Commissioners,  and  the 
Gentlemen  of  the  Caledonian  Hunt,  and  the  Dumfries 
Aristocracy,  and  all  the  Squires  and  Earls,  equally  with 
the  Ayr  Writers,  and  the  New  and  Old  Light  Clergy, 
whom  he  had  to  do  with,  shall  have  become  invisible  in  the 
darkness  of  the  Past,  or  visible  only  by  light  borrowed  from 
/ii's  juxtaposition,  it  will  be  difficult  to  measure  him  by  any 
true  standard,  or  to  estimate  what  he  really  Avas  and  did,  in 
the  eighteenth  century,  for  his  country  and  the  world.  It 
will  be  difficult,  we  say ;  but  still  a  fair  problem  for  literary 
historians ;  and  repeated  attempts  will  give  us  repeated 
approximations. 

His  former  Biographers  have  done  something,  no  doubt, 


Burns.  3 

but  by  no  means  a  great  deal,  to  assist  us.  Dr.  Currie  and 
Mr.  AValker,  the  principal  of  these  writers,  have  both,  we 
think,  mistaken  one  essentially  important  thing:  Their 
own  and  the  world's  true  relation  to  their  author,  and 
the  style  in  which  it  became  such  men  to  think  and  to 
speak  of  such  a  man.  Dr.  Currie  loved  the  poet  truly ; 
more  perhaps  than  he  avowed  to  his  readers,  or  even  to 
himself ;  yet  he  everywhere  introduces  him  with  a  certain 
patronizing,  apologetic  air;  as  if  the  polite  public  might 
think  it  strange  and  half  unwarrantable  that  he,  a  man  of 
science,  a  scholar  and  gentleman,  should  do  such  honor  to 
a  rustic.  In  all  this,  however,  we  readily  admit  that  his 
fault  was  not  want  of  love,  but  weakness  of  faith ;  and 
regret  that  the  first  and  kindest  of  all  our  poet's  biogra- 
phers should  not  have  seen  farther,  or  believed  more  boldly 
what  he  saw.  Mr.  Walker  offends  more  deeply  in  the 
same  kind  :  and  both  err  alike  in  presenting  us  with  a 
detached  catalogue  of  his  several  supposed  attributes, 
virtues  and  vices,  instead  of  a  delineation  of  the  resulting 
character  as  a  living  unity.  This,  however,  is  not  painting 
a  portrait;  but  gauging  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
several  features,  and  jotting  down  their  dimensions  in 
arithmetical  ciphers.  Nay,  it  is  not  so  much  as  that:  for 
we  are  yet  to  learn  by  what  arts  or  instruments  the  mind 
could  be  so  measured  and  gauged. 

Mr.  Lockhart,  we  are  happy  to  say,  has  avoided  both 
these  errors.  He  uniformly  treats  Burns  as  the  high  and 
remarkable  man  the  public  voice  has  now  pronounced  him 
to  be :  and  in  delineating  him,  he  has  avoided  the  method 
of  separate  generalities,  and  rather  sought  for  characteristic 
incidents,  habits,  actions,  sayings;  in  a  word,  for  aspects 
which  exhibit  the  whole  man,  as  he  looked  and  lived  among 
his  fellows.  The  book  accordingly,  with  all  its  deficiencies, 
gives  more  insight,  we  think,  into  the  true  character  of 
Burns,  than  any  prior  biography :  though,  being  written  on 


4  Selections  from    Carlyle. 

the  very  popular  and  condensed  scheme  of  an  article  for 
ConstabJe\s  Miscellany,  it  has  less  dej)th  than  we  could  have 
wished  and  expected  from  a  writer  of  such  power ;  and  con- 
tains rather  more,  and  more  multifarious  quotations  than 
belong  of  right  to  an  original  production.  Indeed,  Mr. 
Lockhart's  own  writing  is  generally  so  good,  so  clear,  direct, 
and  nervous,  that  we  seldom  wish  to  see  it  making  place  for 
another  man's.  However,  the  spirit  of  the  work  is  through- 
out candid,  tolerant,  and  anxiously  conciliating;  compli- 
ments and  praises  are  liberally  distributed,  on  all  hands,  to 
great  and  small ;  and,  as  Mr.  Morris  Birkbeck  observes  of 
the  society  in  the  backwoods  of  America,  'the  courtesies  of 
polite  life  are  never  lost  sight  of  for  a  moment.'  But  there 
are  better  things  than  these  in  the  volume;  and  we  can 
safely  testify,  not  only  that  it  is  easily  and  pleasantly  read 
a  first  time,  but  may  even  be  without  difficulty  read  again. 

Nevertheless,  we  are  far  from  thinking  that  the  problem 
of  Burns's  Biography  has  yet  been  adequately  solved.  We 
do  not  allude  so  much  to  deficiency  of  facts  or  documents, 
—  though  of  these  we  are  still  every  day  receiving  some 
fresh  accession,  —  as  to  the  limited  and  imperfect  applica- 
tion of  them  to  the  great  end  of  Biography.  Our  notions 
upon  this  subject  may  perhaps  appear  extravagant ;  but  if 
an  individual  is  really  of  consequence  enough  to  have  his 
life  and  character  recorded  for  public  remembrance,  we 
have  always  been  of  opinion  that  the  public  ought  to  be 
made  acquainted  with  all  the  inward  springs  and  relations 
of  his  character.  How  did  the  world  and  man's  life,  from 
^is  particular  position,  represent  themselves  to  his  mind  ? 
How  did  coexisting  circumstances  modify  him  from  with- 
out ;  how  did  he  modify  these  from  within  ?  With  what 
endeavors  and  what  efficacy  rule  over  them;  with  what 
resistance  and  what  suffering  sink  under  them?  In  one 
word,  what  and  how  produced  was  the  effect  of  society  on 
I  him;  what  and  how  produced  was  his  effect  on  society? 


Burns.  5 

He  who  should  answer  these  questions,  in  regard  to  any 
individual,  would,  as  we  believe,  furnish  a  model  of  perfec- 
tion in  Biography.  Few  individuals,  indeed,  can  deserve 
such  a  study ;  and  many  lives  will  be  written,  and,  for  the 
gratification  of  innocent  curiosity,  ought  to  be  written,  and 
read  and  forgotten,  which  are  not  in  this  sense  hiograpliies. 
But  Burns,  if  we  mistake  not,  is  one  of  these  few  individuals ; 
and  such  a  study,  at  least  with  such  a  result,  he  has  not  yet 
obtained.  Our  own  contributions  to  it,  we  are  aware,  can  be 
but  scanty  and  feeble ;  but  we  offer  them  with  good-will, 
and  trust  they  may  meet  with  acceptance  from  those  they 
are  intended  for. 

Burns  first  came  upon  the  world  a^  a  prodigy ;  and, was, 
in  that  character,  entertained  by  it,  in  the  usual  fashion, 
with  loud,  vague,  tumultuous  wonder,  speedily  subsiding 
into  censure  and  neglect ;  till  his  early  and  most  mournfid 
death  again  awakened  an  enthusiasm  for  him,  which,  espe- 
cially as  there  was  now  nothing  to  be  done,  and  much  to  be 
sx)oken,  has  prolonged  itself  even  to  our  own  time.  It  is  true, 
the  '  nine  days '  have  long  since  elapsed ;  and  the  very  con- 
tinuance of  this  clamor  proves  that  Burns  was  no  vulgar 
wonder.  Accordingly,  even  in  sober  judgments,  where,  as 
years  passed  by,  he  has  come  to  rest  more  and  more  exclu- 
sively on  his  own  intrinsic  merits,  and  may  now  be  well-nigh 
shorn  of  that  casual  radiance,  he  appears  not  only  as  a  true 
British  poet,  but  as  one  of  the  most  considerable  British 
men  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Let  it  not  be  objected  that 
he  did  little.  He  did  much,  if  we  consider  where  and  how. 
If  the  work  performed  was  small,  we  must  remember  that 
he  had  his  very  materials  to  discover;  for  the  metal  he 
worked  in  lay  hid  under  the  desert,  where  no  eye  but  his 
had  guessed  its  existence ;  and  we  may  almost  say  that  with 
his  own  hand  he  had  to  construct  the  tools  for  fashioning  it. 
For  he  found  himself  in  deepest  obscurity,  without  help, 


6  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

without  instruction,  without  model ;  or  with  models  only  of 
the  meanest  sort.  An  educated  man  stands,  as  it  were,  in 
the  midst  of  a  boundless  arsenal  and  magazine,  filled  with 
all  the  weapons  and  engines  which  man^s  skill  has  been  able 
to  devise  from  the  earliest  time  ;  and  he  works,  accordingly, 
with  a  strength  borrowed  from  all  past  ages.  How  different 
is  his  state  who  stands  on  the  outside  of  that  storehouse,  and 
feels  that  its  gates  must  be  stormed,  or  remain  forever  shut 
against  him!  His  means  are  the  commonest  and  rudest; 
the  mere  work  done  is  no  measure  of  his  strength.  A  dwarf 
behind  his  steam-engine  may  remove  mountains;  but  no 
dwarf  will  hew  them  down  with  a  pickaxe :  and  he  must  be 
a  Titan  that  hurls  them  abroad  Avith  his  arms. 

It.is  in  this  last  shape  that  Burns  presents  himself.  Born 
in  an  age  the  most  prosaic  Britain  had  yet  seen,  and  in  a 
condition  the  most  disadvantageous,  where  his  mind,  if  it 
accomplished  aught,  must  accomplish  it  under  the  pressure 
of  continual  bodily  toil,  nay,  of  penury  and  desponding 
apprehension  of  the  worst  evils,  and  with  no  furtherance 
but  such  knowledge  as  dwells  in  a  poor  man's  hut,  and  the 
rhymes  of  a  Ferguson  or  Ramsay  for  his  standard  of  beauty, 
he  sinks  not  under  all  these  impediments :  through  the  fogs 
and  darkness  of  that  obscure  region,  his  lynx  eye  discerns 
the  true  relations  of  the  world  and  human  life ;  he  grows 
into  intellectual  strength,  and  trains  himself  into  intellectual 
expertness.  Impelled  by  the  expansive  movement  of  his 
own  irrepressible  soul,  he  struggles  forward  into  the  general 
view ;  and  with  haughty  modesty  lays  down  before  us,  as 
the  fruit  of  his  labor,  a  gift  which  Time  has  now  pro- 
nounced imperishable.  Add  to  all  this,  that  his  darksome 
drudging  childhood  and  youth  was  by  far  the  kindliest  era 
of  his  whole  life;  and  that  he  died  in  his  thirty-seventh 
year :  and  then  ask,  If  it  be  strange  that  his  poems  are  im- 
perfect, and  of  small  extent,  or  that  his  genius  attained  no 
mastery  in  its  art  ?     Alas,  his  Sun  shone  as  through  a  tropi- 


Burns,  7 

cal  tornado;  and  the  pale  Shadow  of  Death  eclipsed  it  at> 
noon !  Shrouded  in  such  baleful  vapors,  the  genius  of 
Burns  was  never  seen  in  clear  azure  splendor,  enlightening 
the  world:  but  some  beams  from  it  did,  by  fits,  pierce 
through ;  and  it  tinted  those  clouds  with  rainbow  and  orient 
colors,  into  a  glory  and  stern  grandeur,  which  men  silently 
gazed  on  with  wonder  and  tears ! 

We  are  anxious  not  to  exaggerate ;  for  it  is  exposition 
rather  than  admiration  that  our  readers  require  of  us  here ; 
and  yet  to  avoid  some  tendency  to  that  side  is  no  easy 
matter.  We  love  Burns,  and  we  pity  him ;  and  love  and 
pity  are  prone  to  magnify.  Criticism,  it  is  sometimes 
thought,  should  be  a  cold  business ;  we  are  not  so  sure  of 
this ;  but,  at  all  events,  our  concern  with  Burns  is  not  ex- 
clusively that  of  critics.  True  and  genial  as  his  poetry 
must  appear,  it  is  not  chiefly  as  a  poet,  but  as  a  man,  that 
he  interests  and  affects  us.  He  was  often  advised  to  write 
a  tragedy :  time  and  means  were  not  lent  him  for  this ;  but 
through  life  he  enacted  a  tragedy,  and  one  of  the  deepest. 
We  question  whether  the  world  has  since  witnessed  so 
utterly  sad  a  scene ;  whether  Napoleon  himself,  left  to 
brawl  with  Sir  Hudson  Lowe,  and  perish  on  his  rock,  ^  amid 
the  melancholy  main,'  presented  to  the  reflecting  mind  such 
a  'spectacle  of  pity  and  fear'  as  did  this  intrinsically 
nobler,  gentler,  and  perhaps  greater  soul,  wasting  itself  away 
in  a  hopeless  struggle  with  base  entanglements,  which  coiled 
closer  and  closer  round  him,  till  only  death  opened  him  an 
outlet.  Conquerors  are  a  class  of  men  with  whom,  for  most 
part,  the  world  could  well  dispense;  nor  can  the  hard 
intellect,  the  unsympathizing  loftiness,  and  high  but  selfish 
enthusiasm  of  such  persons  inspire  us  in  general  with  any 
affection ;  at  best  it  may  excite  amazement ;  and  their  fall, 
like  that  of  a  joyramid,  will  be  beheld  with  a  certain  sadness 
and  awe.  But  a  true  Poet,  a  man  in  whose  heart  resides 
some  effluence  of  Wisdom,  some  tone  of  the  '  Eternal  Mel- 


8  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

oclies,'  is  the  most  precious  gift  that  can  be  bestowed  on  a 
generation:  we  see  in  him  a  freer,  pnrer  development  of 
—  whatever  is  noblest  in  ourselves  ;  his  life  is  a  rich  lesson  to 
us ;  and  we  mourn  his  death  as  that  of  a  benefactor  who 
loved  and  taught  us. 

Such  a  gift  had  IN'ature,  in  her  bounty,  bestowed  on  us  in 
Robert  Burns ;  but  witli  queenlike  indifference  she  cast  it 
from  her  hand,  like  a  thing  of  no  moment;  and  it  was 
defaced  and  torn  asunder,  as  an  idle  bauble,  before  we  rec- 
ognized it.  To  the  ill-starred  Burns  was  given  the  power  of 
making  man's  life  more  venerable,  but  that  of  wisely  guid- 
ing his  own  life  was  not  given.  Destiny,  —  for  so  in  our 
ignorance  we  must  speak,  —  his  faults,  the  faults  of  others, 
proved  too  hard  for  him ;  and  that  spirit  which  might  have 
soared  could  it  but  have  walked,  soon  sank  to  the  dust,  its 
glorious  faculties  trodden  under  foot  in  the  blossom;  and 
died,  we  may  almost  say,  without  ever  having  lived.  And 
so  kind  and  warm  a  soul ;  so  full  of  inborn  riches,  of  love  to 
all  living  and  lifeless  things !  How  his  heart  flows  out  in 
sympathy  over  universal  Nature ;  and  in  her  bleakest  prov- 
inces discerns  a  beauty  and  a  meaning  !  The  '  Daisy '  falls 
not  unheeded  under  his  ploughshare ;  nor  the  ruined  nest  of 
that  'wee,  cowering,  timorous  beastie,'  cast  forth,  after  all 
its  provident  pains,  to  '  thole  the  sleety  dribble  and  cran- 
reuch  cauld.'  The  '  hoar  visage '  of  Winter  delights  him  ; 
he  dwells  with  a  sad  and  oft-returning  fondness  in  these 
scenes  of  solemn  desolation ;  but  the  voice  of  the  tempest 
becomes  an  anthem  to  his  ears;  he  loves  to  walk  in  the 
sounding  Avoods,  for  'it  raises  his  thoughts  to  Him  that 
ivalJceth  on  the  icings  of  the  ivincL'  A  true  Poet-soul,  for  it 
needs  but  to  be  struck,  and  the  sound  it  yields  wdli  be 
music !  But  observe  him  chiefly  as  he  mingles  with  his 
brother  men.  What  warm,  all-comprehending  fellow-feel- 
ing; what  trustful,  boundless  love;  what  generous  exagger- 
ation of  the  object  loved!     His  rustic  friend,  his  nut-brown 


Burns.  9 

maiden,  are  no  longer  mean  and  homely,  bnt  a  hero  and  a 
queen,  whom  he  prizes  as  the  paragons  of  Earth.  The 
rough  scenes  of  Scottish  life,  not  seen  by  him  in  any  Arca- 
dian illusion,  but  in  the  rude  contradiction,  in  the  smoke 
and  soil  of  a  too  harsh  reality,  are  still  lovely  to  him : 
Poverty  is  indeed  his  companion,  but  Love  also,  and  Cour- 
age ;  the  simple  feelings,  the  worth,  the  nobleness,  that 
dwell  under  the  straw  roof,  are  dear  and  venerable  to  his 
heart :  and  thus  over  the  loAvest  provinces  of  man's  existence 
he  pours  the  glory  of  his  own  soul ;  and  they  rise,  in 
shadow  and  sunshine,  softened  and  brightened  into  a  beauty 
which  other  eyes  discern  not  in  the  highest.  He  has  a  just 
self-consciousness,  which  too  often  degenerates  into  pride ; 
yet  it  is  a  noble  pride,  for  defence,  not  for  offence ;  no  cold 
suspicious  feeling,  but  a  frank  and  social  one.  The  Peasant 
Poet  bears  himself,  we  might  say,  like  a  King  in  exile :  he 
is  cast  among  the  low,  and  feels  himself  equal  to  the 
highest;  yet  he  claims  no  rank,  that  none  may  be  disputed 
to  him.  The  forward  he  can  repel,  the  supercilious  he  can 
subdue ;  pretensions  of  wealth  or  ancestry  are  of  no  avail 
with  him ;  there  is  a  fire  in  that  dark  eye,  under  which  the 
^insolence  of  condescension'  cannot  thrive.  In  his  abase- 
ment, in  his  extreme  need,  he  forgets  not  for  a  moment  the 
majesty  of  Poetry  and  Manhood.  And  yet,  far  as  he  feels 
himself  above  common  men,  he  Avanders  not  apart  from 
them,  but  mixes  warmly  in  their  interests;  nay,  throws 
himself  into  their  arms,  and,  as  it  were,  entreats  them  to 
love  him.  It  is  moving  to  see  how,  in  his  darkest  despond- 
ency, this  proud  being  still  seeks  relief  from  friendship; 
unbosoms  himself,  often  to  the  unworthy ;  and,  amid  tears, 
strains  to  his  glowing  heart  a  heart  that  knows  only  the 
name  of  friendship.  And  yet  he  was  '  quick  to  learn ; '  a 
man  of  keen  vision,  before  whom  common  disguises  afforded 
no  concealment.  His  understanding  saw  through  the  hol- 
lowness  even  of  accomplished  deceivers ;    but  there  was  a 


10  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

generous  credulity  in  his  heart.  And  so  did  our  Peasant 
show  himself  among  us;  'a  soul  like  an  ^olian  harp,  in 
whose  strings  the  vulgar  wind,  as  it  passed  through  them, 
changed  itself  into  articulate  melody.'  And  this  was  he 
for  whom  the  world  found  no  fitter  business  than  quarrel- 
ing with  smugglers  and  vintners,  computing  excise-dues 
upon  tallow,  and  gauging  ale-barrels !  In  such  toils  was 
that  mighty  Spirit  sorrowfully  wasted:  and  a  hundred 
years  may  pass  on,  before  another  such  is  given  us  to  waste. 

All  that  remains  of  Burns,  the  Writings  he  has  left,  seem 
to  us,  as  we  hinted  above,  no  more  than  a  poor  mutilated 
fraction  of  what  was  in  him ;  brief,  broken  glimpses  of  a 
genius  that  could  never  show  itself  complete ;  that  wanted 
all  things  for  completeness :  culture,  leisure,  true  effort,  nay, 
even  length  of  life.  His  poems  are,  with  scarcely  any  ex- 
ception, mere  occasional  effusions ;  poured  forth  with  little 
meditation ;  expressing,  by  such  means  as  offered,  the  pas- 
sion, opinion,  or  humor  of  the  hour.  Never  in  one  instance 
Avas  it  permitted  him  to  grapple  with  any  subject  with  the 
full  collection  of  his  strength,  to  fuse  and  mould  it  in  the 
concentrated  fire  of  his  genius.  To  try  by  the  strict  rules 
of  Art  such  imperfect  fragments,  would  be  at  once  unprofit- 
able and  unfair.  Nevertheless,  there  is  something  in  these 
poems,  marred  and  defective  as  they  are,  which  forbids  the 
most  fastidious  student  of  poetry  to  pass  them  by.  Some 
sort  of  enduring  quality  they  must  have:  for  after  fifty 
years  of  the  wildest  vicissitudes  in  poetic  taste,  they  still 
continue  to  be  read ;  nay,  are  read  more  and  more  eagerly, 
more  and  more  extensively ;  and  this  not  only  by  literary 
virtuosos,  and  that  class  upon  whom  transitory  causes  oper- 
ate most  strongly,  but  by  all  classes,  down  to  the  most  hard, 
unlettered,  and  truly  natural  class,  who  read  little,  and  espe- 
cially no  poetry,  except  because  they  find  pleasure  in  it.  The 
grounds  of  so  singular  and  wide  a  popularity,  which  extends^ 


Burris.  11 

in  a  literal  sense,  from  the  palace  to  the  hnt,  and  over  all 
regions  where  the  English  tongue  is  spoken,  are  well  worth 
inquiring  into.  After  every  just  deduction,  it  seems  to 
imply  some  rare  excellence  in  these  works.  What  is  that 
excellence  ? 

To  answer  this  question  will  not  lead  us  far.  The  excel- 
lence of  Burns  is,  indeed,  among  the  rarest,  whether  in  poetry , 
or  prose ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  it  is  plain  and  easily  recog- ; 
nized:  his  Sincerity,  his  indisputable  air  of  Truth.  Here; 
are  no  fabulous  woes  or  joys ;  no  hollow  fantastic  sentimen-1 
talities ;  no  wiredrawn  refinings,  either  in  thought  or  feel- 
ing: the  passion  that  is  traced  before  us  has  glowed  in  a 
living  heart;  the  opinion  he  utters  has  risen  in  his  own 
understanding,  and  been  a  light  to  his  own  steps.  He  does 
not  write  from  hearsay,  but  from  sight  and  experience ;  it 
is  the  scenes  that  he  has  lived  and  labored  amidst,  that  he 
describes :  those  scenes,  rude  and  humble  as  they  are,  have 
kindled  beautiful  emotions  in  his  soul,  noble  thoughts,  and 
definite  resolves ;  and  he  speaks  forth  what  is  in  him,  not 
from  any  outward  call  of  vanity  or  interest,  but  because  his 
heart  is  too  full  to  be  silent.  He  speaks  it  with  such  mel- 
ody and  modulation  as  he  can ;  '  in  homely  rustic  jingle ; ' 
but  it  is  his  own,  and  genuine.  This  is  the  grand  secret 
for  finding  readers  and  retaining  them :  let  him  who  would 
move  and  convince  others,  be  first  moved  and  convinced 
himself.  Horace's  rule,  Si  vis  me  flere,  is  applicable  in  a 
wider  sense  than  the  literal  one.  To  ev/ery  poet,  to  every 
^writer,  we  might  say:  Be  true,  if  you  would  be  believed. 
Let  a  man  but  speak  forth  with  genuine  earnestness  the 
thought,  the  emotion,  the  actual  condition  of  his  own  heart ; 
and  other  men,  so  strangely  are  we  all  knit  together  by  the 
tie  of  sympathy,  must  and  will  give  heed  to  him.  In  cult- 
ure, in  extent  of  view,  we  may  stand  above  the  speaker,  or 
below  him ;  but  in  either  case,  his  words,  if  they  are  earnest 
and  sincere,  will  find  some  response  within  us ;  for  in  spite 


12  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

of  all  casual  varieties  in  outward  rank  or  inward,  as  face 
answers  to  face,  so  does  the  heart  of  man  to  man. 

This  may  appear  a  very  simple  principle,  and  one  which 
Burns  had  little  merit  in  discovering.  True,  the  discovery 
is  easy  enough :  but  the  practical  appliance  is  not  easy ;  is 
indeed  the  fundamental  difficulty  which  all  poets  have  to 
strive  with,  and  which  scarcely  one  in  the  hundred  ever 
fairly  surmounts.  A  head  too  dull  to  discriminate  the  true 
from  the  false ;  a  heart  too  dull  to  love  the  one  at  all  risks, 
and  to  hate  the  other  in  spite  of  all  temptations,  are  alike 
fatal  to  a  writer.  With  either,  or,  as  more  commonly  hap- 
pens, with  both  of  these  deficiencies,  combine  a  love  of  dis- 
tinction, a  wish  to  be  original,  which  is  seldom  wanting  ;  and 
we  have  Affectation,  the  bane  of  literature,  as  Cant,  its  elder 
brother,  is  of  morals.  How  often  does  the  one  and  the  other 
front  us,  in  poetry,  as  in  life !  Great  poets  themselves  are 
not  always  free  of  this  vice ;  nay,  it  is  precisely  on  a  cer- 
tain sort  and  degree  of  greatness  that  it  is  most  commonly 
ingrafted.  A  strong  effort  after  excellence  will  sometimes 
solace  itself  with  a  mere  shadow  of  success ;  he  who  has 
much  to  unfold,  will  sometimes  unfold  it  imperfectly.  By- 
ron, for  instance,  was  no  common  man :  yet  if  we  examine 
his  poetry  with  this  view,  we  shall  find  it  far  enough  from 
faultless.  Generally  speaking,  we  should  say  that  it  is  not 
true.  He  refreshes  us,  not  with  the  divine  fountain,  but 
too  often  with  vulgar  strong  waters,  stimulating  indeed  to 
the  taste,  but  soon  ending  in  dislike,  or  even  nausea.  Are 
his  Harolds  and  Giaours,  we  would  ask,  real  men ;  we  mean, 
poetically  consistent  and  conceivable  men?  Do  not  these 
characters,  does  not  the  character  of  their  author,  which 
more  or  less  shines  through  them  all,  rather  appear  a  thing 
put  on  for  the  occasion;  no  natural  or  possible  mode  of 
being,  but  something  intended  to  look  much  grander  than 
nature  ?  Surely,  all  these  stormful  agonies,  this  volcanic 
heroism,  superhuman  contempt,  and  moody  desperation,  with 


Burns.  13 

so  much  scowling,  and  teeth-gnashing,  and  other  sulphurous 
humor,  is  more  like  the  brawling  of  a  player  in  some  paltry- 
tragedy,  which  is  to  last  three  hours,  than  the  bearing  of  a 
man  in  the  business  of  life,  which  is  to  last  threescore  and^ 
ten  years.  To  our  minds  there  is  a  taint  of  this  sort,  some- 
thing which  we  should  call  theatrical,  false,  affected,  in  every 
one  of  these  otherwise  so  powerful  pieces.  Perhaps  Don 
Juan,  especially  the  latter  parts  of  it,  is  the  only  thing 
approaching  to  a  sincere  work,  he  ever  wrote ;  the  only  work 
where  he  showed  himself,  in  any  measure,  as  he  'was ;  and 
seemed  so  intent  on  his  subject  as,  for  moments,  to  forget 
himself.  Yet  Byron  hated  this  vice-,  we  believe,  heartily 
detested  it :  nay,  he  had  declared  formal  war  against  it  in 
words.  So  difficult  is  it  even  for  the  strongest  to  make  this 
primary  attainment,  which  might  seem  the  simplest  of  all; 
to  read  its  own  consciousness  without  mistaJies,  without  errors  ' 
involuntary  or  wilful !  We  recollect  no  poet  of  Burns's^ 
susceptibility  who  comes  before  us  from  the  first,  and  abides 
'^T.th  us  to  the  last,  with  such  a  total  want  of  affectation. 
He  is  an  honest  man,  and  an  honest  writer.  In  his  suc- 
cesses and  his  failures,  in  his  greatness  and  his  littleness,  he 
is  ever  clear,  simple,  true,  and  glitters  with  no  lustre  but 
his  own.  We  reckon  this  to  be  a  great  virtue ;  to  be,  in  fact, 
the  root  of  most  other  virtues,  literary  as  well  as  moral. 

Here,  however,  let  us  say,  it  is  to  the  Poetry  of  Burns 
that  we  now  allude ;  to  those  writings  which  he  had  time  to 
meditate,  and  where  no  special  reason  existed  to  warp  his 
critical  feeling,  or  obstruct  his  endeavor  to  fulfil  it.  Certain 
of  his  Letters,  and  other  fractions  of  prose  composition,  by 
no  means  deserve  this  praise.  Here,  doubtless,  there  is  not 
the  same  natural  truth  of  style ;  but  on  the  contrary,  some- 
thing not  only  stiff,  but  strained  and  twisted  ;  a  certain  high- 
flown  inflated  tone  ;  the  stilting  emphasis  of  which  contrasts 
ill  with  the  firmness  and  rugged  simplicity  of  even  his  poor- 
est verses.     Thus  no  man,  it  would   appear,  is   altogether 


14      "  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

f  unaffected.  Does  not  Shakspeare  himself  sometimes  pre- 
meditate the  sheerest  bombast !  But  even  with  regard  to 
these  Letters  of  Burns,  it  is  but  fair  to  state  that  he  had 
two  excuses.  The  first  was  his  comparative  deficiency  in 
language.  Burns,  though  for  most  part  he  writes  with 
singular  force,  and  even  gracefulness,  is  not  master  of  Eng- 
glish  prose,  as  he  is  of  Scottish  verse ;  not  master  of  it,  we 
mean,  in  proportion  to  the  depth  and  vehemence  of  his 
matter.  These  Letters  strike  us  as  the  effort  of  a  man  to 
express  something  which  he  has  no  organ  fit  for  expressing. 
But  a  second  and  weightier  excuse  is  to  be  found  in  the 
peculiarity  of  Burns's  social  rank.  His  correspondents  are 
often  men  whose  relation  to  him  he  has  never  accurately 
ascertained;  whom  therefore  he  is  either  forearming  him- 
self against,  or  else  unconsciously  flattering,  by  adopting 
the  style  he  thinks  will  please  them.  At  all  events,  we 
should  remember  that  these  faults,  even  in  his  Letters,  are 
not  the  rule,  but  the  exception.  Whenever  he  writes,  as 
one  would  ever  wish  to  do,  to  trusted  friends  and  on  real 
interests,  his  style  becomes  simple,  vigorous,  expressive, 
sometimes  even  beautiful.  His  letters  to  Mrs.  Dunlop  are 
uniformly  excellent. 

But  we  return  to  his  Poetry.  In  addition  to  its  Sincerity, 
it  has  another  peculiar  merit,  which  indeed  is  but  a  mode, 
or  perhaps  a  means,  of  the  foregoing :  this  displays  itself  in 

^his  choice  of  subjects;  or  rather  in  his  indifference  as  to 
subjects,  and  the  power  he  has  of  making  all  subjects  inter- 
esting. The  ordinary  poet,  like  the  ordinary  man,  is  forever 
seeking  in  external  circumstances  the  help  which  can  be 
found  only  in  himself.  In  what  is  familiar  and  near  at  hand, 
he  discerns  no  form  or  comeliness :  home  is  not  poetical,  but 
prosaic;  it  is  in  some  past,  distant,  conventional  heroic 
world,  that  poetry  resides  for  him ;  were  he  there  and  not 
here,  were  he  thus  and  not  so,  it  would  be  well  with  him. 
Hence  our  innumerable  host  of  rose-colored  Novels  and  iron- 


Burns.  15 

mailed  Epics,  with  their  locality  not  on  the  earth,  but  some- 
where nearer  to  the  Moon.  Hence  our  Virgins  of  the  Sun, 
and  our  I^ights  of  the  Cross,  malicious  Saracens  in  turbans, 
and  copper-colored  Chiefs  in  wampum,  and  so  many  other 
truculent  figures  from  the  heroic  times  or  the  heroic  cli- 
mates, who  on  all  hands  swarm  in  our  poetry.  Peace  be 
with  them  !  But  yet,  as  a  great  moralist  proposed  preaching 
to  the  men  of  this  century,  so  would  we  fain  preach  to  the 
poets,  'a  sermon  on  the  duty  of  staying  at  home.'  Let  them 
be  sure  that  heroic  ages  and  heroic  climates  can  do  little  for 
them.  That  form  of  life  has  attraction  for  us,  less  because 
it  is  better  or  nobler  than  our  own,  than  simply  because  it  is 
different ;  and  even  this  attraction  must  be  of  the  most  tran- 
sient sort.  For  will  not  our  own  age,  one  day,  be  an  ancient 
one ;  and  have  as  quaint  a  costume  as  the  rest ;  not  con- 
trasted with  the  rest,  therefore,  but  ranked  along  with  them, 
in  respect  of  quaintness  ?  Does  Homer  interest  us  now, 
because  he  wrote  of  what  passed  beyond  his  native  Greece, 
and  two  centuries  before  he  was  born ;  or  because  he  wrote 
what  passed  in  God's  world,  and  in  the  heart  of  man,  which 
is  the  same  after  thirty  centuries  ?  Let  our  poets  look  to 
this:  is  their  feeling  really  finer,  truer,  and  their  vision 
deeper  than  that  of  other  men,  —  they  have  nothing  to  fear, 
even  from  the  humblest  subject;  is  it  not  so, — they  have 
nothing  to  hope,  but  an  ephemeral  favor,  even  from  the 
highest. 

The  poet,  we  imagine,  can  never  have  far  to  seek  for  a 
subject:  the  elements  of  his  art  are  in  him,  and  around  him 
on  every  hand ;  for  him  the  Ideal  world  is  not  remote  from 
the  Actual,  but  under  it  and  within  it :  nay,  he  is  a  poet,  pre- 
cisely because  he  can  discern  it  there.  Wherever  there  is  a 
sky  above  him,  and  a  world  around  him,  the  poet  is  in  his 
place  ;  for  here  too  is  man's  existence,  with  its  infinite  long- 
ings and  small  acquirings ;  its  ever-thwarted,  ever-renewed 
endeavors ;  its  unspeakable  aspirations,  its  fears  and  hopes 


16  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

that  wander  through  Eternity ;  and  all  the  mystery  of 
brightness  and  of  gloom  that  it  was  ever  made  of,  in  any 
age  or  climate,  since  man  first  began  to  live.  Is  there  not 
the  fifth  act  of  a  Tragedy  in  every  death-bed,  though  it  were 
a  peasant's,  and  a  bed  of  heath?  And  are  wooings  and 
weddings  obsolete,  that  there  can  be  Comedy  no  longer? 
Or  are  men  suddenly  grown  wise,  that  Laughter  must  no 
longer  shake  his  sides,  but  be  cheated  of  his  Farce  ?  Man's 
life  and  nature  is  as  it  was,  and  as  it  will  ever  be.  But  the 
poet  must  have  an  eye  to  read  these  things,  and  a  heart  to 
understand  them ;  or  they  come  and  pass  away  before  him 
in  vain.  He  is  a  vates,  a  seer;  a  gift  of  vision  has  been 
given  him.  Has  life  no  meanings  for  him  which  another 
cannot  equally  decipher ;  then  he  is  no  poet,  and  Delphi 
itself  will  not  make  him  one. 

In  this  respect.  Burns,  though  not  perhaps  absolutely  a 
great  poet,  better  manifests  his  capability,  better  proves  the 
truth  of  his  genius,  than  if  he  had  by  his  own  strength  kept 
the  whole  Minerva  Press  going,  to  the  end  of  his  literary 
course.  He  shows  himself  at  least  a  poet  of  Nature's  own 
making;  and  Nature,  after  all,  is  still  the  grand  agent  in 
making  poets.  We  often  hear  of  this  and  the  other  external 
condition  being  requisite  for  the  existence  of  a  poet.  Some- 
times it  is  a  certain  sort  of  training ;  he  must  have  studied 
certain  things,  studied  for  instance  'the  elder  dramatists,' 
and  so  learned  a  poetic  language ;  as  if  poetry  lay  in  the 
tongue,  not  in  the  heart.  At  other  times  we  are  told  he 
must  be  bred  in  a  certain  rank,  and  must  be  on  a  confiden- 
tial footing  with  the  higher  classes ;  because,  above  all 
things,  he  must  see  the  world.  As  to  seeing  the  world,  we 
apxDrehend  this  will  cause  him  little  difficulty,  if  he  have 
but  eyesight  to  see  it  with.  Without  eyesight,  indeed,  the 
'task  might  be  hard.  The  blind  or  the  purblind  man  '  tra- 
vels from  Dan  to  Beersheba,  and  finds  it  all  barren.'  But 
happily  every  poet  is  born  in  the  Avorld ;  and  sees  it,  with 


Burns.  17 

or  against  his  will,  every  day  and  every  hour  he  lives.  The 
mysterious  workmanship  of  man's  heart,  the  true  light  and 
the  inscrutable  darkness  of  man's  destiny,  reveal  themselves 
not  only  in  capital  cities  and  crowded  saloons,  but  in  every 
hut  and  hamlet  where  men  have  their  abode.  Kay,  do  not 
the  elements  of  all  human  virtues  and  all  human  vices ;  the 
passions  at  once  of  a  Borgia  and  of  a  Luther,  lie  written, 
in  stronger  or  fainter  lines,  in  the  consciousness  of  every 
individual  bosom  that  has  practised  honest  self-examina- 
tion ?  Truly,  this  same  world  may  be  seen  in  Mossgiel  and 
Tarbolton,  if  we  look  well,  as  clearly  as  it  ever  came  to 
light  in  Crockford's,  or  the  Tuileries  itself. 

But  sometimes  still  harder  requisitions  are  laid  on  the 
poor  aspirant  to  poetry;  for  it  is  hinted  that  he  should 
have  been  horn  two  centuries  ago ;  inasmuch  as  poetry, 
about  that  date,  vanished  from  the  earth,  and  became  no 
longer  attainable  by  men  !  Such  cobweb  speculations  have, 
now  and  then,  overhung  the  field  of  literature ;  but  they 
obstruct  not  the  growth  of  any  plant  there :  the  Shakspeare 
or  the  Burns,  unconsciously,  and  merely  as  he  walks  on- 
ward, silently  brushes  them  away.  Is  not  every  genius  an 
impossibility  till  he  appear  ?  Why  do  we  call  him  new 
and  original,  if  ive  saw  where  his  marble  was  lying,  and 
what  fabric  he  could  rear  from  it  ?  It  is  not  the  material, ; 
but  the  workman  that  is  wanting.  It  is  not  the  dark  ■place 
that  hinders,  but  the  dim  eye.  A  Scottish  peasant's  life 
was  the  meanest  and  rudest  of  all  lives,  till  Burns  became 
a  poet  in  it,  and  a  poet  of  it ;  found  it  a  man's  life,  and 
therefore  significant  to  men.  A  thousand  battle-fields 
remain  unsung ;  but  the  Wounded  Hare  has  not  perished 
without  its  memorial ;  a  balm  of  mercy  jet  breathes  on  us 
from  its  dumb  agonies,  because  a  poet  was  there.  Our 
Halloween  had  passed  and  repassed,  in  rude  awe  and 
laughter,  since  the  era  of  the  Druids ;  but  no  Theocritus, 
till  Burns,  discerned  in  it  the  materials  of  a  Scottish  Idyl; 


18  Selections  from    Carlyle. 

neither  was  the  Holy  Fair  any  Council  of  Trent  or  Eoman 
Jubilee;  but  nevertheless  Superstition  and  Hypocrisy  and 
Fun  having  been  propitious  to  him,  in  this  man's  hand  it 
became  a  poem,  instinct  with  satire  and  genuine  comic  Jife. 
-Let  but  the  true  poet  be  given  us,  we  repeat  it,  place  him 
where  and  how  you  will ;  and  true  poetry  will  not  be  wanting. 
Independently  of  the  essential  gift  of  poetic  feeling,  as  we 

ihave  now  attempted  to  describe  it,  a  certain  rugged  sterling 
worth  pervades  whatever  Burns  has  written ;  a  virtue,  as  of 
green  fields  and  mountain  breezes,  dwells  in  his  poetry ;  it 
is  redolent  of  natural  life  and  hardy  natural  men.  There  is 
a  decisive  strength  in  him,  and  yet  a  sweet  native  graceful- 
ness :  he  is  tender,  he  is  vehement,  yet  without  constraint 
or  too  visible  effort ;  he  melts  the  heart,  or  inflames  it,  with 
a  power  which  seems  habitual  and  familiar  to  him.  We  see 
that  in  this  man  there  was  the  gentleness,  the  trembling  pity 
of  a  woman,  with  the  deep  earnestness,  the  force  and  pas- 
sionate ardor  of  a  hero.  Tears  lie  in  him,  and  consuming 
fire ;  as  lightning  lurks  in  the  drops  of  the  summer  cloud. 
He  has  a  resonance  in  his  bosom  for  every  note  of  human 
feeling ;  the  high  and  the  low,  the  sad,  the  ludicrous,  the 
joyful,  are  welcome  in  their  turns  to  his  '  lightly-moved  and 
all-conceiving  spirit.'  And  observe  with  what  a  fierce 
prompt  force  he  grasps  his  subject,  be  it  what  it  may  !  How 
he  fixes,  as  it  were,  the  full  image  of  the  matter  in  his  eye ; 
full  and  clear  in  every  lineament ;  and  catches  the  real  type 
and  essence  of  it,  amid  a  thousand  accidents  and  superficial 
circumstances,  no  one  of  which  misleads  him !  Is  it  of 
reason ;  some  truth  to  be  discovered  ?  No  sophistry,  no 
vain  surface-logic  detains  him ;  quick,  resolute,  unerring,  he 
pierces  through  into  the  marrow  of  the  question ;  and  speaks 
his  verdict  with  an  emphasis  that  cannot  be  forgotten.  Is 
it  of  description ;  some  visual  object  to  be  represented  ?  No 
-^poet  of  any  age  or  nation  is  more  graphic  than  Burns :  the 
characteristic  features  disclose  themselves  to  him  at  a  glance ; 


Burns.  19 

three  lines  from  his  hand,  and  we  have  a  likeness.     And,  in  j 
that  rough  dialect,  in  that  rude,  often  awkward  metre,  so 
clear  and  definite  a  likeness!      It  seems   a   draughtsman 
working  with  a  burnt  stick  ;  and  yet  the  burin  of  a  Eetzsch 
is  not  more  expressive  or  exact. 

Of  this  last  excellence,  the  plainest  and  most  comprehen- 
sive of  all,  being  indeed  the  root  and  foundation  of  every 
sort  of  talent,  poetical  or  intellectual,  we  could  produce 
innumerable  instances  from  the  writings  of  Burns.  Take 
these  glimpses  of  a  snow-storm  from  his  Winter  Night  (the 
italics  are  ours)  : 

When  biting  Boreas,  fell  and  dour, 
Sharp  shivers  thro'  the  leafless  bow'r, 
And  Phoebus  gies  a  short-livhl  glowr 

Far  south  the  lift, 
Dim-darTc' ning  thro'  the  flaky  show'r 

Or  whirling  drift : 

'Ae  night  the  storm  the  steeples  rock'd, 
Poor  labor  sweet  in  sleep  was  lock'd. 
While  burns  lof  S7iawy  wreeths  upchok'd 

Wild-eddying  swirl, 
Or  thro'  the  mining  outlet  bock'd 

Down  headlong  hurl. 

Are  there  not  'descriptive  touches'  here?  The  describer 
saw  this  thing;  the  essential  feature  and  true  likeness  of 
every  circumstance  in  it ;  saw,  and  not  with  the  eye  only. 
'Poor  labor  locked  in  sweet  sleep;'  the  dead  stillness  of 
man,  unconscious,  vanquished,  yet  not  unprotected,  while 
such  strife  of  the  material  elements  rages,  and  seems  to 
reign  supreme  in  loneliness :  this  is  of  the  heart  as  well  as 
of  the  eye !  —  Look  also  at  his  image  of  a  thaw,  and  prophe- 
sied fall  of  the  Auld  Brig  : 

When  heavy,  dark,  continued,  a' -day  rains 

Wi'  deepening  deluges  o'erliow  the  plains  ; 

When  from  the  hills  where  springs  the  brawling  Coil, 

Or  stately  Lugar's  mossy  fountains  boil, 


20  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

Or  where  the  Greenock  winds  his  moorland  course, 
Or  haunted  Garpal*  draws  his  feeble  source, 
Aroused  by  blust'ring  winds  and  spotting  thowes, 
In  many  a  torrent  down  his  snaio-hroo  rowes  ; 
While  crashing  ice,  borne  on  the  roaring  speat, 
Sweeps  dams  and  mills  and  brigs  a'  to  the  gate  ; 
And  from  Glenbuck  down  to  the  Rottonkey, 
Auld  Ayr  is  just  one  lengthen' d  tumbling  sea ; 
Then  down  ye' 11  hurl,  Deil  nor  ye  never  rise  ! 
And  dash  the  giimliejaiips  up  to  the  pouring  skies. 

The  last  line  is  in  itself  a  Poussin-picture  of  that  Deluge ! 
The  welkin  has,  as  it  were,  bent  down  with  its  weight ;  the 
^gumlie  jaups'  and  the  'pouring  skies'  are  mingled  together ; 
it  is  a  world  of  rain  and  ruin.  —  In  respect  of  mere  clear- 
ness and  minute  fidelity,  the  Farmers  commendation  of  his 
Auld  Mare,  in  plough  or  in  cart,  may  vie  with  Homer's 
Smithy  of  the  Cyclops,  or  yoking  of  Priam's  Chariot.  Nor 
have  Ave  forgotten  stout  Burn-the-wind  and  his  brawny  cus- 
tomers, inspired  by  Scotch  Drink:  but  it  is  needless  to 
multiply  examples.  One  other  trait  of  a  much  finer  sort  we 
select  from  multitudes  of  such  among  his  Songs.  It  gives, 
in  a  single  line,  to  the  saddest  feeling  the  saddest  environ- 
ment and  local  habitation : 

The  pale  Moon  is  setting  beyond  the  white  imve. 
And  Time  is  setting  wV  me,  0  ; 
Earewell,  false  friends  !  false  lover,  farewell ! 
I'll  nae  mair  trouble  them  nor  thee,  O, 

This  clearness  of  sight  we  have  called  the  foundation  of 
all  talent;  for  in  fact,  unless  we  see  our  object,  how  shall 
we  know  how  to  place  or  prize  it,  in  our  understanding, 
our  imagination,  our  affections?  Yet  it  is  not  in  itself, 
perhaps,  a  very  high  excellence;  but  capable  of  being 
united  indifferently  with  the  strongest,  or  with  ordinary 
power.  Homer  surpasses  all  men  in  this  quality:  but 
-  strangely  enough,  at  no  great  distance  below  him  are  Rich- 
* Fahalosas  Hydaspes! 


Burns.  21 

arc! son  and  Defoe.  It  belongs,  in  trntli,  to  what  is  called  a 
lively  mind;  and  gives  no  snre  indication  of  the  higher 
endowments  that  may  exist  along  with  it.  In  all  the  three 
cases  w^e  have  mentioned,  it  is  combined  with  great  gar- 
rulity; their  descriptions  are  detailed,  ample  and  lovingly 
exact;  Homer's  fire  bursts  through,  from  time  to  time,  as 
if  by  accident;  but  Defoe  and  Richardson  have  no  fire. 
Burns,  again,  is  not  more  distinguished  by  the  clearness 
than  by  the  impetuous  force  of  his  conceptions.  Of  the 
strength,  the  piercing  emphasis  with  which  he  thought,  his 
emphasis  of  expression  may  give  a  humble  but  the  readiest 
proof.  Who  ever  uttered  sharper  sayings  than  his ;  words 
more  memorable,  now  by  their  burning  vehemence,  now  by 
their  cool  vigor  and  laconic  pith?  A  single  phrase  depicts 
a  whole  subject,  a  whole  scene.  We  hear  of  *a  gentleman 
that  derived  his  patent  of  nobility  direct  from  Almighty 
God.'  Our  Scottish  forefathers  in  the  battle-field  struggled 
forward,  he  says,  'red-ivat-sJwd : '  giving  in  this  one  word, 
a  full  vision  of  horror  and  carnage ;  perhaps  too  frightfully 
accurate  for  Art! 

In  fact,  one  of  the  leading  features  in  the  mind  of  Burns 
is  this  vigor  of  his  strictly  intellectual  perceptions.  A 
resolute  force  is  ever  visible  in  his  judgments,  and  in  his 
feelings  and  volitions.  Professor  Stewart  says  of  him, 
with  some  surprise:  'All  the  faculties  of  Burns's  mind 
were,  as  far  as  I  could  judge,  equally  vigorous;  and  his 
predilection  for  poetry  was  rather  the  result  of  his  own 
enthusiastic  and  impassioned  temper,  than  of  a  genius 
exclusively  adapted  to  that  species  of  composition.  From 
his  conversation  I  should  have  pronounced  him  to  be  fitted 
to  excel  in  whatever  walk  of  ambition  he  had  chosen  to 
exert  his  abilities.'  But  this,  if  we  mistake  not,  is  at  all 
times  the  very  essence  of  a  truly  poetical  endowment. 
Poetry,  except  in  such  cases  as  that  of  Keats,  where  the 
whole  consists  in  extreme  sensibility,  and  a  certain  vague. 


22  Selections  from    Carlyle. 

pervading  tunefulness  of  nature,  is  no  separate  faculty,  no 
organ  which  can  be  superadded  to  the  rest,  or  disjoined  from 
them ;  but  rather  the  result  of  their  general  harmony  and 
completion.  The  feelings,  the  gifts,  that  exist  in  the  Poet 
are  those  that  exist,  with  more  or  less  development,  in 
every  human  soul :  the  imagination  which  shudders  at  the 
Hell  of  Dante,  is  the  same  faculty,  weaker  in  degree,  which 
called  that  picture  into  being.  How  does  the  Poet  speak 
to  men,  with  power,  but  by  being  still  more  a  man  than 
they?  Shakspeare,  it  has  been  well  observed,  in  the  plan- 
ning and  completing  of  his  tragedies,  has  shown  an  Under- 
standing, were  it  nothing  more,  which  might  have  governed 
states,  or  indited  a  Novum  Organum.  What  Burns's  force 
of  understanding  may  have  been,  we  have  less  means  of 
judging :  it  had  to  dwell  among  the  humblest  objects ;  never 
saw  Philosophy ;  never  rose,  except  by  natural  effort  and 
for  short  intervals,  into  the  region  of  great  ideas.  Never- 
theless, sufficient  indication,  if  no  proof  sufficient,  remains 
for  us  in  his  works :  we  discern  the  brawny  movements  of 
a  gigantic  though  untutored  strength ;  and  can  understand 
how,  in  conversation,  his  quick  sure  insight  into  men  and 
things  may,  as  much  as  aught  else  about  him,  have  amazed 
the  best  thinkers  of  his  time  and  country. 

But,  unless  we  mistake,  the  intellectual  gift  of  Burns  is 
fine  as  well  as  strong.  The  more  delicate  relations  of 
things  could  not  well  have  escaped  his  eye,  for  they  were 
intimately  present  to  his  heart.  The  logic  of  the  senate 
and  the  forum  is  indispensable,  but  not  all-sufficient;  nay, 
perhaps  the  highest  Truth  is  that  which  will  the  most  cer- 
tainly elude  it.  Por  this  logic  works  by  words,  and  'the 
highest,'  it  has  been  said,  'cannot  be  expressed  in  words.' 
We  are  not  without  tokens  of  an  openness  for  this  higher 
truth  also,  of  a  keen  though  uncultivated  sense  for  it, 
having  existed  in  Burns.  Mr.  Stewart,  it  will  be  remem- 
bered, 'wonders,'  in  the  passage  above  quoted,  that  Burns 


Burns.  23 

had  formed  some  distinct  conception  of  the  'doctrine  of 
association. '  We  rather  think  that  far  subtler  things  than 
the  doctrine  of  association  had  from  of  old  been  familiar  to 
him.     Here  for  instance: 

'We  know  nothing,'  thus  writes  he,  'or  next  to  nothing,  of  the 
structure  of  our  souls,  so  we  cannot  account  for  those  seeming  caprices 
in  them,  that  one  should  be  particularly  pleased  with  this  thing,  or 
struck  with  that,  which,  on  minds  of  a  different  cast,  makes  no  ex- 
traordinary impression.  I  have  some  favorite  flowers  in  spring,  among 
which  are  the  mountain-daisy,  the  harebell,  the  foxglove,  the  wild- 
brier  rose,  the  budding  birch,  and  the  hoary  hawthorn,  that  I  view 
and  hang  over  with  particular  delight.  I  never  hear  the  loud  solitary 
whistle  of  the  curlew  in  a  summer  noon,  or  the  wild  mixing  cadence 
of  a  troop  of  gray  plover  in  an  autumnal  morning,  without  feeling  an 
elevation  of  soul  like  the  enthusiasm  of  devotion  or  poetry.  Tell  me, 
my  dear  friend,  to  what  can  this  be  owing  ?  Are  we  a  piece  of  ma- 
chinery, which,  like  the  JEolian  harp,  passive,  takes  the  impression  of 
the  passing  accident ;  or  do  these  workings  argue  something  within  us 
above  the  trodden  clod  ?  I  own  myself  partial  to  such  proofs  of  those 
awful  and  important  realities :  a  God  that  made  all  things,  man's  im- 
material and  immortal  nature,  and  a  world  of  weal  or  woe  beyond 
death  and  the  grave.' 

Force  and  fineness  of  understanding  are  often  spoken  of 
as  something  different  from  general  force  and  fineness  of 
nature,  as  something  partly  independent  of  them.  The 
necessities  of  language  so  require  it;  but  in  truth  these 
qualities  are  not  distinct  and  independent :  except  in  special 
cases,  and  from  special  causes,  they  ever  go  together.  A 
man  of  strong  understanding  is  generally  a  man  of  strong 
character;  neither  is  delicacy  in  the  one  kind  often  divided 
from  delicacy  in  the  other.  No  one,  at  all  events,  is  igno- 
rant that  in  the  Poetry  of  Burns  keenness  of  insight  keeps 
pace  with  keenness  of  feeling;  that  his  light  is  not  more 
pervading  than  his  warmth.  He  is  a  man  of  the  most 
impassioned  temper;  with  passions  not  strong  only,  but 
noble,  and  of  the  sort  in  which  great  virtues  and  great 
poems  take  their  rise.     It  is  reverence,  it  is  love  towards 


24  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

all  Nature  that  inspires  him,  that  opens  his  eyes  to  its 
beauty,  and  makes  heart  and  voice  eloquent  in  its  praise. 
There  is  a  true  old  saying,  that  'Love  furthers  knowledge: ' 
but  above  all,  it  is  the  living  essence  of  that  knowledge 
which  makes  poets;  the  first  principle  of  its  existence, 
increase,  activity.  Of  Burns's  fervid  affection,  his  gener- 
^  ous  all-embracing  Love,  we  have  spoken  already,  as  of  the 
grand  distinction  of  his  nature,  seen  equally  in  word  and 
deed,  in  his  Life  and  in  his  Writings.  It  were  easy  to 
multiply  examples.  Not  man  only,  but  all  that  environs 
man  in  the  material  and  moral  universe,  is  lovely  in  his 
sight:  'the  hoary  hawthorn,'  the  'troop  of  gray  plover,' 
the  'solitary  curlew,'  all  are  dear  to  him;  all  live  in  this 
Earth  along  with  him,  and  to  all  he  is  knit  as  in  mysterious 
brotherhood.  How  touching  is  it,  for  instance,  that,  amidst 
the  gloom  of  personal  misery,  brooding  over  the  wintry 
desolation  without  him  and  within  him,  he  thinks  of  the 
'  ourie  cattle '  and  '  silly  sheep,'  and  their  sufferings  in  the 
pitiless  storm! 

I  thought  me  on  the  ourie  cattle, 
Or  silly  sheep,  wha  bide  this  brattle 

O'  wintry  war, 
Or  thro'  the  drift,  deep-lairing,  sprattle, 

Beneath  a  scaur. 
Ilk  happing  bird,  wee  helpless  thing, 
That  in  the  merry  months  o'  spring 
Delighted  me  to  hear  thee  sing, 

What  comes  o'  thee  ? 
Where  wilt  thou  cow'r  thy  chittering  wing, 

And  close  thy  ee  ? 

The  tenant  of  the  mean  hut,  with  its  'ragged  roof  and 
chinky  wall,'  has  a  heart  to  pity  even  these !  This  is  worth 
several  homilies  on  Mercy;  for  it  is  the  voice  of  Mercy 
herself.  Burns,  indeed,  lives  in  sympathy;  his  soul  rushes 
forth  into  all  realms  of  being;  nothing  that  has  existence 


Burns.  25 

can  be  indifferent  to  him.     The  very  Devil  he  cannot  hate 
with  right  orthodoxy : 

But  fare  you  weel,  auld  Nickie-ben ; 
O,  wad  ye  tak  a  thought  and  men'  ! 
Ye  aiblins  might,  —  I  dinna  ken,  — 

Still  hae  a  stake  ; 
I'm  wae  to  think  upo'  yon  den, 

Even  for  your  sake  ! 

He  did  not  know,  probably,  that  Sterne  had  been  before-  ■ 
hand  with  him.     '"He  is  the  father  of  curses  and  lies," 
said  Dr.  Slop;  ''and  is  cursed  and  damned  already."  — "I 
am  sorry  for  it,"  quoth  my  uncle  Toby!  '  —  A  Poet  without 
Love  were  a  ]ohysical  and  metaphysical  impossibility. 

But  has  it  not  been  said,  in  contradiction  to  this  prin- 
ciple, that  'Indignation  makes  verses'?  It  has  been  so 
said,  and  is  true  enough :  but  the  contradiction  is  apparent, 
not  real.  The  Indignation  which  makes  verses  is,  properly 
speaking,  an  inverted  Love ;  the  love  of  some  right,  some 
worth,  some  goodness,  belonging  to  ourselves  or  others, 
which  has  been  injured,  and  which  this  tempestuous  feel- 
ing issues  forth  to  defend  and  avenge.  No  selfish  fury  of 
heart,  existing  there  as  a  primary  feeling,  and  without  its 
opposite,  ever  produced  much  Poetry:  otherwise,  we  sup- 
pose, the  Tiger  were  the  most  musical  of  all  our  choristers. 
Johnson  said  he  loved  a  good  hater;  by  which  he  must 
have  meant,  not  so  much  one  that  hated  violently,  as  one 
that  hated  wisely ;  hated  baseness  from  love  of  nobleness. 
However,  in  spite  of  Johnson's  paradox,  tolerable  enough 
for  once  in  speech,  but  which  need  not  have  been  so  often 
adopted  in  print  since  then,  we  rather  believe  that  good 
men  deal  sparingly  in  hatred,  either  wise  or  unwise :  nay, 
that  a  'good  '  hater  is  still  a  desideratum  in  this  world. 
The  Devil,  at  least,  who  passes  for  the  chief  and  best  of 
that  class,  is  said  to  be  nowise  an  amiable  character. 

Of  the  verses  which  Indignation  makes,  Burns  has  also 


26  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

given  lis  specimens:  and  among  the  best  that  were  ever 
given.  Who  will  forget  his  'Diveller  in  yon  Dungeon  dark;  ' 
a  piece  that  might  have  been  chanted  by  the  Furies  of 
^schylus?  The  secrets  of  the  infernal  Pit  are  laid  bare; 
a  boundless,  baleful  'darkness  visible;'  and  streaks  of  hell- 
fire  quivering  madly  in  its  black  haggard  bosom ! 

Dweller  in  yon  Dungeon  dark, 
Hangman  of  Creation,  mark  ! 
Wtio  in  widow's  weeds  appears, 
Laden  with  unbonored  years, 
Noosing  with  care  a  bursting  purse. 
Baited  with  many  a  deadly  curse  ! 

Why  should  we  speak  of  'Scots  wha  hae  loV  Wallace  hied;  ' 
since  all  know  of  it,  from  the  king  to  the  meanest  of  his 
subjects?  This  dithyrambic  was  composed  on  horseback; 
in  riding  in  the  middle  of  tempests,  over  the  wildest  Gallo- 
way moor,  in  company  with  a  Mr.  Syme,  who,  observing 
the  poet's  looks,  forbore  to  speak, — judiciously  enough, 
for  a  man  composing  Bruce^s  Address  might  be  unsafe  to 
trifle  with.  Doubtless  this  stern  hymn  was  singing  itself, 
as  he  formed  it,  through  the  soul  of  Burns:  but  to  the 
external  ear,  it  should  be  sung  with  the  throat  of  the  whirl- 
wind. So  long  as  there  is  warm  blood  in  the  heart  of 
Scotchman  or  man,  it  will  move  in  fierce  thrills  under  this 
war-ode;  the  best,  we  believe,  that  was  ever  written  by 
any  pen. 

Another  wild  stormful  Song,  that  dwells  in  our  ear  and 
mind  with  a  strange  tenacity,  is  Macpherson's  Fareivell. 
Perhaps  there  is  something  in  the  tradition  itself  that 
cooperates.  Por  was  not  this  grim  Celt,  this  shaggy 
Northland  Cacus,  that  'lived  a  life  of  sturt  and  strife,  and 
died  by  treacherie, '  —  was  not  he  too  one  of  the  Nimrods 
and  Napoleons  of  the  earth,  in  the  arena  of  his  own  remote 
misty  glens,  for  want  of  a  clearer  and  wider  one?  Nay, 
was  there  not  a  touch  of  grace  given  him?     A  fibre  of  love 


Bi(rns.  27 

and  softness,  of  poetry  itself,  mast  have  lived  in  his  savage 
heart:  for  he  composed  that  air  the  night  before  his  exe- 
cution; on  the  wings  of  that  poor  melody  his  better  soul 
would  soar  away  above  oblivion,  pain,  and  all  the  ignominy 
and  despair,  which,  like  an  avalanche,  was  hurling  him  to 
the  abyss!  Here  also,  as  at  Thebes,  and  in  Pelops'  line, 
was  material  Fate  matched  against  man's  Free-will; 
matched  in  bitterest  though  obscure  duel;  and  the  ethe- 
real soul  sank  not,  even  in  its  blindness,  without  a  cry 
which  has  survived  it.  But  who,  except  Burns,  could  have 
given  words  to  such  a  soul ;  words  that  we  never  listen  to 
without  a  strange  half -barbarous,  half -poetic  fellow-feeling? 

Sae  rantingly,  sae  wantonly,    . 

Sae  dauntingly  gaed  he; 
He  play'' d  a  spring,  and  danced  it  round. 

Below  the  gallows-tree. 

Under  a  lighter  disguise,  the  same  principle  of  Love, 
which  we  have  recognized  as  the  great  characteristic  of 
Burns,  and  of  all  true  poets,  occasionally  manifests  itself 
in  the  shape  of  Humor.  Everywhere,  indeed,  in  his  sunny 
moods,  a  full  buoyant  flood  of  mirth  rolls  through  the  mind 
of  Burns;  he  rises  to  the  high,  and  stoo|)S  to  the  low,  and 
is  brother  and  playmate  to  all  Nature.  We  speak  not  of 
his  bold  and  often  irresistible  faculty  of  caricature;  for 
this  is  Drollery  rather  than  Humor:  but  a  much  tenderer 
sportfulness  dwells  in  him;  and  comes  forth  here  and 
there,  in  evanescent  and  beautiful  touches;  as  in  his 
Address  to  the  Mouse,  or  the  Farmer^ s  Mare,  or  in  his  Elegy 
on  2^oor  Mailie,  which  last  may  be  reckoned  his  happiest 
effort  of  this  kind.  In  these  pieces  there  are  traits  of  a 
Humor  as  fine  as  that  of  Sterne;  yet  altogether  different, 
original,  peculiar,  — the  Humor  of  Burns. 

Of  the  tenderness,  the  ^^layful  pathos,  and  many  other 
kindred  qualities  of  Buriis's  Poetry,  much  more  might  be 
said;    but  now,  with  these  poor  outlines  of  a  sketch,  we 


28  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

must  prepare  to  quit  tliis  part  of  our  subject.  To  speak  of 
his  individual  Writings,  adequately  and  with  any  detail, 
would  lead  us  far  beyond  our  limits.     As  already  hinted, 

^we  can  look  on  but  few  of  these  pieces  as,  in  strict  critical 
language,  deserving  the  name  of  Poems :  they  are  rhymed 
eloquence,  rhymed  pathos,  rhymed  sense;  yet  seldom 
essentially  melodious,  aerial,  poetical.  Tarn  o'  Shanter 
itself,  which  enjoys  so  high  a  favor,  does  not  appear  to  us 
at  all  decisively  to  come  under  this  last  category.  It  is 
not  so  much  a  poem,  as  a  piece  of  sparkling  rhetoric;  the 
heart  and  body  of  the  story  still  lies  hard  and  dead.  He 
has  not  gone  back,  much  less  carried  us  back,  into  that 
dark,  earnest,  woncl^ering  age,  when  the  tradition  was 
believed,  and.  when  it  took  its  rise ;  he  does  not  attempt, 
by  any  new-modeling  of  his  supernatural  ware,  to  strike 
anew  that  deep,  mysterious  chord  of  human  nature,  which 
once  responded  to  such  things ;  and  which  lives  in  us  too, 
and  will  forever  live,  though  silent  now,  or  vibrating  with 
far  other  notes,  and  to  far  different  issues.  Our  German 
readers  will  understand  us,  when  we  say  that  he  is  not  the 
Tieck  but  the  Musaus  of  this  tale.  Externally  it  is  all 
green  and  living;  yet  look  closer,  it  is  no  firm  growth,  but 
only  ivy  on  a  rock.     The  piece  does  not  properly  cohere : 

^  the  strange  chasm  which  yawns  in  our  incredulous  imagina- 
tions between  the  Ayr  public-house  and  the  gate  of  Tophet, 
is  nowhere  bridged  over,  nay,  the  idea  of  such  a  bridge  is 
laughed  at ;  and  thus  the  Tragedy  of  the  adventure  becomes 
a  mere  drunken  phantasmagoria,  or  many-colored  spectrum 
painted  on  ale-vapors,  and  the  Farce  alone  has  any  reality. 
We  do  not  say  that  Burns  should  have  made  much  more  of 
this  tradition;  we  rather  think  that,  for  strictly  poetical 
purposes,  not  much  ivas  to  be  made  of  it.  Neither  are 
we  blind  to  the  deep,  varied,  genial  power  displayed  in 
what  he  has  actually  accomplished;  but  we  find  far  more 
^Shakspearean '  qualities,  as  these  of  Tarn  o'  Shanter  have 


Burns.  29 

been  fondly  named,  in  many  of  his  other  pieces ;  nay,  we 
incline  to  believe  that  this  latter  might  have  been  written, 
all  but  quite  as  well,  by  a  man  who,  in  place  of  genius, 
had  only  possessed  talent. 

Perhaps  we  may  venture  to  say,  that  the  most  strictly 
poetical  of  all  his  'poems '  is  one  which  does  not  appear  in 
Currie's  Edition;  but  has  been  often  printed  before  and 
since,  under  the  humble  title  of  TJie  Jolly  Beggars.  The 
subject  truly  is  among  the  lowest  in  Nature;  but  it  only 
the  more  shows  our  Poet's  gift  in  raising  it  into  the  domain 
of  Art.  To  our  minds,  this  piece  seems  thoroughly  com- 
pacted; melted  together,  refined;  and  poured  forth  in  one 
flood  of  true  liquid  harmony.  It  is  light,  airy,  soft  of 
movement;  yet  sharp  and  precise  in  its  details;  every  face 
is  a  portrait :  that  raiide  carlin,  that  tcee  Apollo,  that  Son 
of  Mars,  are  Scottish,  yet  ideal;  the  scene  is  at  once  a 
dream,  and  the  very  Eagcastle  of  'Poosie-ISTansie. '  Farther, 
it  seems  in  a  considerable  degree  complete,  a  real  self- 
supporting  Whole,  which  is  the  highest  merit  in  a  poem. 
The  blanket  of  the  Night  is  drawn  asunder  for  a  moment; 
in  full,  ruddy,  flaming  light,  these  rough  tatterdemalions 
are  seen  in  their  boisterous  revel;  for  the  strong  pulse  of 
Life  vindicates  its  right  to  gladness  even  here;  and  when 
the  curtain  closes,  we  prolong  the  action,  without  effort; 
the  next  day  as  the  last,  our  Caird  and  our  Balladmonger 
are  singing  and  soldiering;  their  'brats  and  callets  '  are 
hawking,  begging,  cheating;  and  some  other  night,  in  new 
combinations,  they  will  wring  from  Pate  another  hour  of 
wassail  and  good  cheer.  Apart  from  the  universal  sym- 
pathy with  man  which  this  again  bespeaks  in  Burns,  a 
genuine  inspiration  and  no  inconsiderable  technical  talent 
are  manifested  here.  There  is  the  fidelity,  humor,  warm 
life,  and  accurate  painting  and  grouping  of  some  Teniers, 
for  whom  hostlers  and  carousing  peasants  are  not  without 
significance.     It  would  be  strange,  doubtless,  to  call  this 


30  Selectioyis  from   Carlyle. 

the  best  of  Burns's  writings:  we  mean  to  say  only  that  it 
seems  to  us  the  most  perfect  of  its  kind,  as  a  piece  of 
poetical  composition,  strictly  so  called.  In  the  Beggars'' 
Opera,  in  the  Beggars^  Bush,  as  other  critics  have  already 
remarked,  there  is  nothing  which,  in  real  poetic  vigor, 
equals  this  Cantata;  nothing,  as  we  think,  which  comes 
within  many  degrees  of  it. 

But  by  far  the  most  finished,  complete,  and  truly  inspired 
pieces  of  Burns  are,  without  dispute,  to  be  found  among 
vhis  Songs.  It  is  here  that,  although  through  a  small  aper- 
ture, his  light  shines  with  least  obstruction;  in  its  highest 
beauty  and  pure  sunny  clearness.  The  reason  may  be, 
that  Song  is  a  brief,  simple  species  of  composition;  and 
requires  nothing  so  much  for  its  perfection  as  genuine 
poetic  feeling,  genuine  music  of  heart.  Yet  the  Song  has 
its  rules  equally  with  the  Tragedy;  rules  which  in  most 
cases  are  poorly  fulfilled,  in  many  cases  are  not  so  mach  as 
felt.  We  might  write  a  long  essay  on  the  Songs  of  Burns; 
which  we  reckon  by  far  the  best  that  Britain  has  yet  pro- 
duced: for  indeed,  since  the  era  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  we 
know  not  that,  by  any  other  hand,  aught  truly  worth  atten- 
tion has  been  accomplished  in  this  department.  True,  we 
have  songs  enough  'by  persons  of  quality; '  we  have  tawdry, 
hollow,  wine-bred  madrigals ;  many  a  rhymed  speech  'in  the 
flowing  and  watery  vein  of  Ossorius  the  Portugal  Bishop, ' 
rich  in  sonorous  words,  and,  for  moral,  dashed  perhaps 
with  some  tint  of  a  sentimental  sensuality;  all  which  many 
persons  cease  not  from  endeavoring  to  sing;  though  for 
most  part,  we  fear,  the  music  is  but  from  the  throat  out- 
wards, or  at  best  from  some  region  far  enough  short  of  the 
Soul;  not  in  which,  but  in  a  certain  inane  Limbo  of  the 
Fancy,  or  even  in  some  vaporous  debatable-land  on  the  out- 
skirts of  the  Xervous  System,  most  of  such  madrigals  and 
rhymed  speeches  seem  to  have  originated. 


Burns.  31 

With  the  Songs  of  Burns  we  must  not  name  these  things. 
Independently  of  the  clear,  manly,  heartfelt  sentiment  that 
ever  pervades  his  poetry,  his  Songs  are  honest  in  another 
point  of  view :  in  form,  as  well  as  in  spirit.  They  do  not 
affect  to  be  set  to  music,  but  they  actually  and  in  themselves 
are  music;  they  have  received  their  life,  and  fashioned 
themselves  together,  in  the  medium  of  Harmony,  as  Venus 
rose  from  the  bosom  of  the  sea.  The  story,  the  feeling,  is 
not  detailed,  but  suggested;  not  said,  or  spouted,  in  rhetor- 
ical completeness  and  coherence ;  but  sung,  in  fitful  gushes, 
in  glowing  hints,  in  fantastic  breaks,  in  icarblings  not  of  the 
voice  only,  but  of  the  whole  mind.  We  consider  this  to  be 
the  essence  of  a  song ;  and  that  no  songs  since  the  little 
careless  catches,  and  as  it  were  drops  of  song,  which  Shak- 
speare  has  here  and  there  sprinkled  over  his  Plays,  fulfill 
this  condition  in  nearly  the  same  degree  as  most  of  Burns's 
do.  Such  grace  and  truth  of  external  movement,  too,  pre- 
supposes in  general  a  corresponding  force  and  truth  of  senti- 
ment and  inward  meaning.  The  Songs  of  Burns  are  not 
more  perfect  in  the  former  quality  than  in  the  latter.  With 
what  tenderness  he  sings,  yet  with  what  vehemence  and 
entireness  !  There  is  a  piercing  wail  in  his  sorrow,  the 
purest  rapture  in  his  joy ;  he  burns  with  the  sternest  ire,  or 
laughs  Avith  the  loudest  or  sliest  mirth ;  and  j^et  he  is  sweet 
and  soft, '  sweet  as  the  smile  when  fond  lovers  meet,  and  soft 
as  their  parting  tear.'  If  we  farther  take  into  account  the 
immense  variety  of  his  subjects  ;  how,  from  the  loud  flowing 
revel  in  'Willie  brewed  a  Peck  o'  Maiit,^  to  the  still,  rapt 
enthusiasm  of  sadness  for  Mary  in  Heaven;  from  the  glad 
kind  greeting  of  Auld  Langsyne,  or  the  comic  archness  of 
Duncan  Gray,  to  the  fire-eyed  fury  of  'Scots  wha  hae  wV 
Wcdlace  bled,'  he  has  found  a  tone  and  words  for  every  mood 
of  man's  heart,  —  it  will  seem  a  small  praise  if  we  rank 
him  as  the  first  of  all  our  Song- writers  ;  for  we  know  not 
where  to  find  one  worthy  of  being  second  to  him. 


32  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

It  is  oil  liis  Songs,  as  we  believe,  that  Burns's  chief  influ- 
ence as  an  author  will  ultimately  be  found  to  depend :  nor, 
if  our  Eletcher's  ax^horisni  is  true,  shall  we  account  this  a 
small  influence.  '  Let  me  make  the  songs  of  a  people/  said 
he,  '  and  you  shall  make  its  laws.'  Surely,  if  ever  any  Poet 
might  have  equaled  himself  with  Legislators  on  this  ground, 
it  was  Burns.  His  Songs  are  already  part  of  the  mother- 
tongue,  not  of  Scotland  only  but  of  Britain,  and  of  the  mil- 
lions that  in  all  ends  of  the  earth  speak  a  British  language. 
In  hut  and  hall,  as  the  heart  unfolds  itself  in  many-colored 
joy  and  woe  of  existence,  the  name,  the  voice  of  that  joy 
and  that  woe,  is  the  name  and  voice  which  Burns  has  given 
them.  Strictly  speaking,  perhaps  no  British  man  has  so 
deeply  affected  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  so  many  men, 
as  this  solitary  and  altogether  private  individual,  with  means 
apparently  the  humblest. 

In  another  point  of  view,  moreover,  we  incline  to  think 
that  Burns's  influence  may  have  been  considerable:  we 
mean,  as  exerted  specially  on  the  Literature  of  his  country, 
at  least  on  the  Literature  of  Scotland.  Among  the  great 
-changes  which  British,  particularly  Scottish,  literature  has 
undergone  since  that  period,  one  of  the  greatest  will  be 
found  to  consist  in  its  remarkable  increase  of  nationality. 
Even  the  English  writers,  most  popular  in  Burns's  time, 
were  little  distinguished  for  their  literary  patriotism,  in 
this  its  best  sense.  A  certain  attenuated  cosmopolitan- 
ism had,  in  good  measure,  taken  place  of  the  old  insular 
home-feeling;  literature  was,  as  it  were,  without  any  local 
environment ;  was  not  nourished  by  the  affections  which 
spring  from  a  native  soil.  Our  Grays  and  Glovers  seemed 
to  write  almost  as  if  in  vamo ;  the  thing  written  bears  no 
mark  of  place  ;  it  is  not  written  so  much  for  Englishmen,  as 
for  men ;  or  rather,  which  is  the  inevitable  result  of  this, 
for  certain  Generalizations  which  i3hilosophy  termed  men. 
Goldsmith  is  an  exception:  not  so  Johnson;  the  scene  of 


4-1^  r.4-      r^f     ^^'^„        T>^^r.^l^r, 


Burns.  33 

But  if  such  was,  in  some  degree,  the  case  with  England, 
it  was,  in  the  highest  degree,  the  case  with  Scotland.  In 
fact,  our  Scottish  literature  had,  at  that  period,  a  very  singu- 
lar aspect ;  unexampled,  so  far  as  we  know,  except  perhaps 
at  Geneva,  where  the  same  state  of  matters  appears  still  to 
continue.  For  a  long  period  after  Scotland  became  British, 
we  had  no  literature  :  at  the  date  Avhen  Addison  and  Steele 
were  writing  their  Spectators,  our  good  John  Boston  was 
writing,  with  the  noblest  intent,  but  alike  in  defiance  of 
grammar  and  philosophy,  his  Fourfold  State  of  Man.  Then 
came  the  schisms  in  our  National  Church,  and  the  fiercer 
schisms  in  our  Body  Politic:  Theologic  ink,  and  Jacobite 
blood,  with  gall  enough  in  both  cases,  seemed  to  have 
blotted  out  the  intellect  of  the  country  :  however,  it  was 
only  obscured,  not  obliterated.  Lord  Kames  made  nearly 
the  first  attempt,  and  a  tolerably  clumsy  one,  at  writing 
English;  and  ere  long,  Hume,  Robertson,  Smith,  and  a 
whole  host  of  followers,  attracted  hither  the  eyes  of  all 
Eiu'ope.  And  yet  in  this  brilliant  resuscitation  of  our 
^fervid  genius,'  there  was  nothing  truly  Scottish,  nothing 
indigenous ;  except,  perhaps,  the  natural  impetuosity  of 
intellect,  which  we  sometimes  claim,  and  are  sometimes 
upbraided  with,  as  a  characteristic  of  our  nation.  It  is 
curious  to  remark  that  Scotland,  so  full  of  writers,  had  no 
Scottish  culture,  nor  indeed  any  English ;  our  culture  was 
almost  exclusively  French.  It  was  by  studying  Racine  and 
Voltaire,  Batteux  and  Boileau,  that  Kames  had  trained 
himself  to  be  a  critic  and  philosopher ;  it  was  the  light  of 
Montesquieu  and  Mably  that  guided  Robertson  in  his  polit- 
ical speculations ;  Quesnay's  lamp  that  kindled  the  lamp  of 
Adam  Smith.  Hume  was  too  rich  a  man  to  borrow ;  and 
perhaps  he  reacted  on  the  French  more  than  he  was  acted 
on  by  them  :  but  neither  had  he  aught  to  do  with  Scotland ; 
Edinburgh,  equally  with  La  Fleche,  was  but  the  lodging  and 
laboratory,  in  which  he  not  so  much  morally  Uced,  as  meta- 


34  Select t07is  from   Carlyle. 

physically  investigated.  Never,  perhaps,  was  there  a  class 
of  writers  so  clear  and  well-ordered,  yet  so  totally  destitute, 
to  all  appearance,  of  any  patriotic  affection,  nay,  of  any 
human  affection  whatever.  The  French  wits  of  the  period 
were  as  unpatriotic  :  but  their  general  deficiency  in  moral 
principle,  not  to  say  their  avowed  sensuality  and  unbelief 
in  all  virtue,  strictly  so  called,  render  this  accountable 
enough.  We  hope  there  is  a  patriotism  founded  on  some- 
thing better  than  prejudice ;  that  our  country  may  be  dear 
to  us,  without  injury  to  our  philosophy ;  that  in  loving  and 
justly  prizing  all  other  lands,  we  may  prize  justly,  and  yet 
love  before  all  others,  our  own  stern  Motherland,  and  the 
venerable  Structure  of  social  and  moral  Life,  which  Mind 
has  through  long  ages  been  building  up  for  us  there.  Surely 
there  is  nourishment  for  the  better  part  of  man's  heart  in 
all  this  :  surely  the  roots  that  have  fixed  themselves  in  the 
very  core  of  man's  being,  may  be  so  cultivated  as  to  grow 
up  not  into  briers,  but  into  roses,  in  the  field  of  his  life ! 
Our  Scottish  sages  have  no  such  propensities :  the  field  of 
their  life  shows  neither  briers  nor  roses  ;  but  only  a  flat, 
continuous  thrashing-floor  for  Logic,  whereon  all  questions, 
from  the  'Doctrine  of  Rent'  to  the  'Natural  History  of 
Religion,'  are  thrashed  and  sifted  with  the  same  mechanical 
impartiality ! 

With  Sir  Walter  Scott  at  the  head  of  our  literature,  it 
cannot  be  denied  that  much  of  this  evil  is  past,  or  rapidly 
passing  away  :  our  chief  literary  men,  whatever  other  faults 
they  may  have,  no  longer  live  among  us  like  a  French 
Colony,  or  some  knot  of  Propaganda  Missionaries ;  but  like 
natural-born  subjects  of  the  soil,  partaking  and  sympathizing 
in  all  our  attachments,  humors,  and  habits.  Our  literature 
no  longer  grows  in  water  but  in  mould,  and  with  the  true 
racy  virtues  of  the  soil  and  climate.  How  much  of  this 
change  may  be  due  to  Burns,  or  to  any  other  individual,  it 
might  be  difficult  to  estimate.     Direct  literary  imitation  of 


Burns.  35 

Burns  was  not  to  be  looked  for.  But  his  example,  in  the 
fearless  adoption  of  domestic  subjects,  could  not  but  operate 
from  afar ;  and  certainly  in  no  heart  did  the  love  of  country 
ever  burn  with  a  warmer  glow  than  in  that  of  Burns :  '  a 
tide  of  Scottish  prejudice,'  as  he  modestly  calls  this  deep 
and  generous  feeling,  '  had  been  poured  along  his  veins ; 
and  he  felt  that  it  would  boil  there  till  the  flood-gates  shut 
in  eternal  rest.'  It  seemed  to  him,  as  if  he  could  do  so  little^ 
for  his  country,  and  yet  would  so  gladly  have  done  all.  \ 
One  small  province  stood  open  for  him,  —  that  of  Scottish  | 
Song ;  and  how  eagerly  he  entered  on  it,  how  devotedly  he 
labored  there !  In  his  toilsome  journeyings,  this  object 
never  quits  him;  it  is  the  little  happy-valley  of  his  care- 
worn heart.  In  the  gloom  of  his  own  affliction,  he  eagerly 
searches  after  some  lonely  brother  of  the  muse,  and  rejoices 
to  snatch  one  other  name  from  the  oblivion  that  was  cov- 
ering it !  These  were  early  feelings,  and  they  abode  with 
him  to  the  end : 

...  A  wish  (I  mind  its  power), 
A  wish,  that  to  my  latest  hour 
Shall  strongly  heave  my  breast,  — 
That  I,  for  poor  auld  Scotland's  sake, 
Some  usefu'  plan  or  book  could  make, 
Or  sing  a  sang  at  least. 
The  rough  bur-thistle,  spreading  wide 

Amang  the  bearded  bear, 
I  turn'd  my  weeding-clips  aside, 

And  spared  the  symbol  dear. 

But  to  leave  the  mere  literary  character  of  Burns,  which 
has  already  detained  us  too  long.  Far  more  interesting 
than  any  of  his  written  works,  as  it  appears  to  us,  are  his 
acted  ones  :  the  Life  he  willed  and  was  fated  to  lead  among 
his  fellow-men.  These  Poems  are  but  like  little  rhymed 
fragments  scattered  here  and  there  in  the  grand  unrhymed 
Eomance  of  his  earthly  existence ;  and  it  is  only  when  in- 


36  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

tercalated  in  this  at  their  proper  places,  that  they  attain 
their  full  measure  of  significance.  And  this  too;  alas,  was 
but  a  fragment !  The  plan  of  a  mighty  edifice  had  been 
sketched;  some  columns,  porticos,  firm  masses  of  building, 
stand  completed;  the  rest  more  or  less  clearly  indicated; 
with  many  a  far-stretching  tendency,  which  only  studious 
and  friendly  eyes  can  now  trace  towards  the  purposed  ter- 
mination. For  the  work  is  broken  off  in  the  middle,  almost 
in  the  beginning ;  and  rises  among  us,  beautiful  and  sad, 
at  once  unfinished  and  a  ruin  !  If  charitable  judgment  was 
necessary  in  estimating  his  Poems,  and  justice  required 
that  the  aim  and  the  manifest  power  to  fulfil  it  must  often 
be  accepted  for  the  fulfilment ;  much  more  is  this  the  case 
in  regard  to  his  Life,  the  sum  and  result  of  all  his  endeav- 
ors, where  his  difficulties  came  upon  him  not  in  detail  only, 
but  in  mass ;  and  so  much  has  been  left  unaccomplished, 
nay,  was  mistaken,  and  altogether  marred. 

Properly  speaking,  there  is  but  one  era  in  the  life  of 
Burns,  and  that  the  earliest.  We  have  not  youth  and  man- 
hood, but  only  youth:  for,  to  the  end,  we  discern  no  de- 
cisive change  in  the  complexion  of  his  character;  in  his 
thirty-seventh  year,  he  is  still,  as  it  were,  in  youth.  With 
all  that  resoluteness  of  judgment,  that  penetrating  insight, 
and  singular  maturity  of  intellectual  power,  exhibited  in 
his  writings,  he  never  attains  to  any  clearness  regarding 
himself;  to  the  last,  he  never  ascertains  his  peculiar  aim, 
even  with  such  distinctness  as  is  common  among  ordinary 
men;  and  therefore  never  can  pursue  it  with  that  single- 
ness of  will,  which  insures  success  and  some  contentment 
to  such  men.  To  the  last,  he  wavers  between  two  pur- 
poses :  glorying  in  his  talent,  like  a  true  poet,  he  yet  cannot 
consent  to  make  this  his  chief  and  sole  glory,  and  to  follow 
it  as  the  one  thing  needful,  through  poverty  or  riches, 
through  good  or  evil  report.  Another  far  meaner  ambition 
still  cleaves  to  him;  he  must  dream  and  struggle  about  a 


Burns,  37 

certain  '  Eock  of  Independence ; '  which,  natural  and  even 
admirable  as  it  might  be,  was  still  but  a  warring  with  the 
world,  on  the  comparatively  insignificant  ground  of  his 
being  more  completely  or  less  completely  supplied  with 
money  than  others;  of  his  standing  at  a  higher  or  at  a 
lower  altitude  in  general  estimation  than  others.  For  the 
world  still  appears  to  him,  as  to  the  young,  in  borrowed 
colors :  he  expects  from  it  what  it  cannot  give  to  any  man ; 
seeks  for  contentment,  not  within  himself,  in  action  and 
wise  effort,  but  from  without,  in  the  kindness  of  circum 
stances,  in  love,  friendship,  honor,  pecuniary  ease.  He 
would  be  happy,  not  actively  and  in  himself,  but  passively 
and  from  some  ideal  cornucopia  of  Enjoyments,  not  earned 
by  his  own  labor,  but  showered  on  him  by  the  beneficence 
of  Destiny.  Thus,  like  a  young  man,  he  cannot  gird  him- 
self up  for  any  worthy  well-calculated  goal,  but  swerves 
to  and  fro,  between  passionate  hope  and  remorseful  disap- 
pointment :  rushing  onwards  with  a  deep  tempestuous  force, 
he  surmounts  or  breaks  asunder  many  a  barrier;  travels, 
nay,  advances  far,  but  advancing  only  under  uncertain  guid- 
ance, is  ever  and  anon  turned  from  his  i)ath;  and  to  the 
last  cannot  reach  the  only  true  happiness  of  a  man,  that  of 
clear  decided  Activity  in  the  sphere  for  which,  by  nature 
and  circumstances,  he  has  been  fitted  and  appointed. 

We  do  not  say  these  things  in  dispraise  of  Burns ;  nay, 
perhaps,  they  but  interest  us  the  more  in  his  favor.  This 
blessing  is  not  given  soonest  to  the  best;  but  rather,  it  is 
often  the  greatest  minds  that  are  latest  in  obtaining  it; 
for  where  most  is  to  be  developed,  most  time  may  be  re- 
quired to  develop  it.  A  complex  condition  had  been  as- 
signed him  from  without;  as  complex  a  condition  from 
within:  no  ^  preestablished  harmony'  existed  between  the 
clay  soil  of  Mossgiel  and  the  empyrean  soul  of  Kobert 
Burns;  it  was  not  wonderful  that  the  adjustment  between 
them  should  have  been  long  postponed,  and  his  arm  long 


38  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

cumbered,  and  his  siglit  confused,  in  so  vast  and  discordant 
an  economy  as  he  had  been  appointed  steward  over.  Byron 
was,  at  his  death,  but  a  year  younger  than  Burns ;  and 
through  life,  as  it  might  have  appeared,  far  more  simply 
situated :  yet  in  him  too  we  can  trace  no  such  adjustment, 
no  such  moral  manhood ;  but  at  best,  and  only  a  little 
before  his  end,  the  beginning  of  what  seemed  such. 

By  much  the  most  striking  incident  in  Burns's  Life  is  his 
journey  to  Edinburgh ;  but  perhaps  a  still  more  important 
one  is  his  residence  at  Irvine,  so  early  as  in  his  twenty-third 
year.  Hitherto  his  life  had  been  poor  and  toilworn ;  but 
otherwise  not  ungenial,  and,  with  all  its  distresses,  by  no 
means  unhappy.  In  his  parentage,  deducting  outward  cir- 
cumstances, he  had  every  reason  to  reckon  himself  fortunate. 
His  father  was  a  man  of  thoughtful,  intense,  earnest  char- 
acter, as  the  best  of  our  peasants  are ;  valuing  knowledge, 
possessing  some,  and,  what  is  far  better  and  rarer,  open- 
minded  for  more:  a  man  with  a  keen  insight  and  devout 
heart ;  reverent  towards  God,  friendly  therefore  at  once  and 
fearless,  towards  all  that  God  has  made :  in  one  word,  though 
but  a  hard-handed  peasant,  a  complete  and  fully  unfolded 
Man.  Such  a  father  is  seldom  found  in  any  rank  in  society ; 
and  was  worth  descending  far  in  society  to  seek.  Unfor- 
tunately, he  was  very  poor  ;  had  he  been  even  a  little  richer, 
almost  never  so  little,  the  whole  might  have  issued  far  other- 
wise. Mighty  events  turn  on  a  straw;  the  crossing  of  a 
brook  decides  the  conquest  of  the  world.  Had  this  "William 
Burns's  small  seven  acres  of  nursery-ground  anywise  pros- 
pered, the  boy  Eobert  had  been  sent  to  school ;  had  strug- 
gled forward,  as  so  many  weaker  men  do,  to  some  university ; 
come  forth  not  as  a  rustic  wonder,  but  as  a  regular  well- 
trained  intellectual  workman,  and  changed  the  whole  course 
of  British  Literature,  —  for  it  lay  in  him  to  have  done  this  ! 
But  the  nursery  did  not  prosper ;  poverty  sank  his  whole 
family  below  the  help  of   even  our  cheap  school-system: 


Burns.  39 

Burns  remained  a  hard-worked  x^loughboy,  and  British 
literature  took  its  own  course.  Nevertheless,  even  in  this 
rugged  scene  there  is  much  to  nourish  him.  If  he  drudges, 
it  is  with  his  brother,  and  for  his  father  and  mother,  whom 
he  loves,  and  would  fain  shield  from  want.  Wisdom  is  not 
banished  from  their  poor  hearth,  nor  the  balm  of  natural 
feeling :  the  solemn  words,  '  Let  us  ivorsliip  God,''  are  heard 
there  from  a  priest-like  father;  if  threatenings  of  imjust 
men  throw  mother  and  children  into  tears,  these  are  tears 
not  of  grief  only,  but  of  holiest  affection;  every  heart  in 
that  humble  group  feels  itself  the  closer  knit  to  every 
other ;  in  their  hard  warfare  they  are  there  together,  a  '  little 
band  of  brethren.'  IN'either  are  such  tears,  and  the  deep 
beauty  that  dwells  in  them,  their  only  portion.  Light  visits 
the  hearts  as  it  does  the  eyes  of  all  living :  there  is  a  force, 
too,  in  this  youth,  that  enables  him  to  trample  on  misfor- 
tune ;  nay,  to  bind  it  under  his  feet  to  make  him  sport.  For 
a  bold,  warm,  buoyant  humor  of  character  has  been  given 
him  ;  and  so  the  thick-coming  shapes  of  evil  are  welcomed 
with  a  gay,  friendly  irony,  and  in  their  closest  pressure  he 
bates  no  jot  of  heart  or  hope.  Vague  yearnings  of  ambition 
fail  not,  as  he  grows  up ;  dreamy  fancies  hang  like  cloud- 
cities  around  him ;  the  curtain  of  Existence  is  slowly  rising, 
in  many-colored  splendor  and  gloom  :  and  the  auroral  light 
of  first  love  is  gilding  his  horizon,  and  the  music  of  song  is 
on  his  path ;  and  so  he  walks 

in  glory  and  in  joy, 

Behind  his  plough,  upon  the  mountain  side. 

We  ourselves  know,  from  the  best  evidence,  that  up  to 
this  date  Burns  was  happy ;  nay,  that  he  was  the  gayest, 
brightest,  most  fantastic,  fascinating  being  to  be  found  in 
the  world ;  more  so  even  than  he  ever  afterwards  appeared. 
But  now,  at  this  early  age,  he  quits  the  paternal  roof ;  goes 
forth  into  looser,  louder,  more  exciting  society ;  and  becomes 


40  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

initiated  in  those  dissipations,  those  vices,  which  a  certain 
class  of  philosophers  have  asserted  to  be  a  natural  prepara- 
tive for  entering  on  active  life ;  a  kind  of  mud-bath,  in  which 
the  youth  is,  as  it  were,  necessitated  to  steep,  and,  we  sup- 
pose, cleanse  himself,  before  the  real  toga  of  Manhood  can 
be  laid  on  him.  We  shall  not  dispute  much  with  this  class 
of  x^hilosophers  ;  we  hope  they  are  mistaken :  for  Sin  and  Ke- 
morse  so  easily  beset  us  at  all  stages  of  life,  and  are  always 
such  indifferent  company,  that  it  seems  hard  we  should,  at 
any  stage,  be  forced  and  fated  not  only  to  meet  but  to  yield 
to  them,  and  even  serve  for  a  term  in  their  leprous  armada. 
We  hope  it  is  not  so.  Clear  we  are,  at  all  events,  it  cannot 
be  the  training  one  receives  in  this  Devil's  service,  but  only 
our  determining  to  desert  from  it,  that  fits  us  for  true  manly 
Action.  We  become  men,  not  after  we  have  been  dissipated, 
-.  and  disappointed  in  the  chase  of  false  pleasure ;  but  after 
we  have  ascertained,  in  any  way,  what  impassable  barriers 
hem  us  in  through  this  life ;  how  mad  it  is  to  hope  for  con- 
tentment to  our  infinite  soul  from  the  gifts  of  this  extremely 
finite  world  ;  that  a  man  must  be  sufficient  for  himself ;  and 
that  for  suffering  and  enduring  there  is  no  remedy  but  striv- 
ing and  doing.  Manhood  begins  when  we  have  in  any  way 
made  truce  with  Necessity  ;  begins  even  when  we  have  sur- 
rendered to  Necessity,  as  the  most  part  only  do ;  but  begins 
joyfully  and  hopefully  only  when  we  have  reconciled  our- 
selves to  Necessity ;  and  thus,  in  reality,  triumphed  over  it, 
and  felt  that  in  Necessity  we  are  free.  Surely,  such  lessons 
as  this  last,  which,  in  one  shape  or  other,  is  the  grand  lesson 
for  every  mortal  man,  are  better  learned  from  the  lips  of  a 
devout  mother,  in  the  looks  and  actions  of  a  devout  father, 
while  the  heart  is  yet  soft  and  pliant,  than  in  collision  with 
the  sharp  adamant  of  Fate,  attracting  us  to  shipwreck  us, 
when  the  heart  is  grown  hard,  and  may  be  broken  before  it 
will  become  contrite.  Had  Burns  continued  to  learn  this, 
as  he  was  already  learning  it,  in  his  father's   cottage,  he 


Burns.  41 

-would  have  learned  it  fully,  wliicli  he  never  did ;  and  been 
saved  many  a  lasting  aberration,  many  a  bitter  hour  and 
year  of  remorseful  sorrow. 

It  seems  to  us  another  circumstance  of  fatal  import  in 
Burns 's  history,  that  at  this  time  too  he  became  involved  in 
the  religious  quarrels  of  his  district;  that  he  was  enlisted 
and  feasted,  as  the  fighting  man  of  the  New-Light  Priest- 
hood, in  their  highly  unprofitable  warfare.  At  the  tables 
of  these  free-minded  clergy  he  learned  much  more  than 
was  needful  for  him.  Such  liberal  ridicule  of  fanaticism 
awakened  in  his  mind  scruples  about  Religion  itself;  and 
a  whole  world  of  Doubts,  which  it  required  quite  another 
set  of  conjurors  than  these  men  to  exorcise.  We  do  not 
say  that  such  an  intellect  as  his  could  have  escaped  similar 
doubts  at  some  period  of  his  history ;  or  even  that  he  could, 
at  a  later  period,  have  come  through  them  altogether  vic- 
torious and  unharmed:  but  it  seems  peculiarly  unfortunate 
that  this  time,  above  all  others,  should  have  been  fixed  for 
the  encounter.  For  now,  with  principles  assailed  by  evil 
example  from  without,  by  'passions  raging  like  demons' 
from  within,  he  had  little  need  of  sceptical  misgivings  to 
whisper  treason  in  the  heat  of  the  battle,  or  to  cut  off  his 
retreat  if  he  were  already  defeated.  He  loses  his  feeling 
of  innocence;  his  mind  is  at  variance  with  itself;  the  old 
divinity  no  longer  presides  there;  but  wild  Desires  and 
wild  Repentance  alternately  oppress  him.  Ere  long,  too, 
he  has  committed  himself  before  the  world;  his  character 
for  sobriety,  dear  to  a  Scottish  peasant  as  few  corrupted 
worldlings  can  even  conceive,  is  destroyed  in  the  eyes  of 
men;  and  his  only  refuge  consists  in  trying  to  disbelieve 
his  guiltiness,  and  is  but  a  refuge  of  lies.  The  blackest 
desperation  now  gathers  over  him,  broken  only  by  red 
lightnings  of  remorse.  The  whole  fat)ric  of  his  life  is 
blasted  asunder;  for  now  not  only  his  chp-^acter,  but  his 
personal  liberty,  is  to  be  lost ;  men  and  Fortune  are  leagued 


42  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

for  his  hurt;  'hungry  Ruin  has  him  in  the  wind.'  He 
sees  no  escape  but  the  saddest  of  all :  exile  from  his  loved 
country,  to  a  country  in  every  sense  inhospitable  and 
abhorrent  to  him.  While  the  'gloomy  night  is  gathering 
fast, '  in  mental  storm  and  solitude,  as  well  as  in  physical, 
he  sings  his  wild  farewell  to  Scotland : 

Farewell,  my  friends ;  farewell,  my  foes  ! 
My  peace  with  these,  my  love  with  those : 
The  bursting  tears  my  heart  declare  ; 
Adieu,  my  native  banks  of  Ayr  ! 

Light  breaks  suddenly  in  on  him  in  floods;  but  still  a 
false  transitory  light,  and  no  real  sunshine.  He  is  invited 
to  Edinburgh;  hastens  thither  with  anticipating  heart;  is 
welcomed  as  in  a  triumph,  and  with  universal  blandish- 
ment and  acclamation;  whatever  is  wisest,  whatever  is 
greatest  or  loveliest  there,  gathers  round  him,  to  gaze  on 
his  face,  to  show  him  honor,  sympathy,  affection.  Burns 's 
appearance  among  the  sages  and  nobles  of  Edinburgh  must 
be  regarded  as  one  of  the  most  singular  phenomena  in 
modern  Literature;  almost  like  the  appearance  of  some 
Napoleon  among  the  crowned  sovereigns  of  modern  Poli- 
tics. For  it  is  nowise  as  a  'mockery  king,'  set  there  by 
favor,  transiently  and  for  a  purpose,  that  he  will  let  him- 
self be  treated;  still  less  is  he  a  mad  Rienzi,  whose  sudden 
elevation  turns  his  too  weak  head :  but  he  stands  there  on 
his  own  basis;  cool,  unastonished,  holding  his  equal  rank 
from  Nature  herself;  putting  forth  no  claim  which  there 
is  not  strength  in  him,  as  well  as  about  him,  to  vindicate. 
Mr.  Lockhart  has  some  forcible  observations  on  this  point : 

'It  needs  no  effort  of  imagination,'  says  he,  'to  conceive  what  the 
sensations  of  an  isolated  set  of  scholars  (almost  all  either  clergymen 
or  professors)  must  liave  been  in  the  presence  of  this  big-boned,  black- 
browed,  brawny  stranger,  with  his  great  flashing  eyes,  who,  having 
forced  his  way  among  them  from  the  plough-tail  at  a  single  stride, 
manifested  in  the  whole  strain  of  his  bearins;  and  conversation  a  most 


Burns.  43 

thorough  conviction,  that  in  the  society  of  the  most  eminent  men  of  his 
nation  he  was  exactly  where  he  was  entitled  to  be  ;  hardly  deigned  to 
flatter  them  by  exhibiting  even  an  occasional  symptom  of  being  flattered 
by  their  notice ;  by  turns  calmly  measured  himself  against  the  most 
cultivated  understandings  of  his  time  in  discussion ;  overpowered  the 
bonsmots  of  the  most  celebrated  convivialists  by  broad  floods  of  mer- 
riment, impregnated  with  all  the  burning  life  of  genius ;  astounded 
bosoms  habitually  enveloped  in  the  thrice-piled  folds  of  social  reserve, 
by  compelling  them  to  tremble,  — nay,  to  tremble  visibly,  — beneath  the 
fearless  touch  of  natural  pathos ;  and  all  this  without  indicating  the 
smallest  willingness  to  be  ranked  among  those  professional  ministers 
of  excitement,  who  are  content  to  be  paid  in  money  and  smiles  for 
doing  what  the  spectators  and  auditors  would  be  ashamed  of  doing  in 
their  own  persons,  even  if  they  had  the  power  of  doing  it ;  and  last, 
and  probably  worst  of  all,  who  was  known  to  be  in  the  habit  of  en- 
livening societies  which  they  would  have  scorned  to  approach,  still 
more  frequently  than  their  own,  with  eloquence  no  less  magnificent ; 
with  wit,  in  all  likelihood  still  more  daring  ;  often  enough,  as  the 
superiors  whom  he  fronted  without  alarm  might  have  guessed  from 
the  beginning,  and  had  ere  long  no  occasion  to  guess,  with  wit  pointed 
at  themselves.' 

The  farther  we  remove  from  this  scene,  the  more  smgii- 
lar  will  it  seem  to  us :  details  of  the  exterior  aspect  of  it 
are  already  full  of  interest.  Most  readers  recollect  Mr. 
Walker's  personal  interviews  with  Burns  as  among  the 
best  x^assages  of  his  Narrative:  a  time  will  come  when 
this  reminiscence  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's,  slight  though  it 
is,  will  also  be  precious : 

'As  for  Burns,'  writes  Sir  Walter,  'I  may  truly  say,  Virg ilium 
vidi  tantum.  I  w^as  a  lad  of  fifteen  in  1786-7,  when  he  came  first  to 
Edinburgh,  but  had  sense  and  feeling  enough  to  be  much  inter- 
ested in  his  poetry,  and  would  have  given  the  world  to  know  him  : 
but  I  had  very  little  acquaintance  with  any  literary  people,  and  still 
less  with  the  gentry  of  the  west  country  ;  the  two  sets  that  he  most 
frequented.  Mr.  Thomas  Grierson  was  at  that  time  a  clerk  of  my 
father's.  He  knew  Burns,  and  promised  to  ask  him  to  his  lodgings  to 
dinner ;  but  had  no  opportunity  to  keep  his  word  ;  otherwise  I  might 
have  seen  more  of  this  distinguished  man.     As  it  was,  I  saw  him  one 


44  Selections  from   Carlyle, 

day  at  the  late  venerable  Professor  Ferguson's,  where  there  were  sev- 
eral gentlemen  of  literary  reputation,  among  whom  I  remember  the 
celebrated  Mr.  Dugald  Stewart.  Of  course,  we  youngsters  sat  silent, 
looked,  and  listened.  The  only  thing  I  remember  which  was  remark- 
able in  Burns's  manner,  was  the  effect  produced  upon  him  by  a  print 
of  Bunbury's,  representing  a  soldier  lying  dead  on  the  snow,  his  dog 
sitting  in  misery  on  one  side,  —  on  the  other,  his  widow,  with  a  child 
in  her  arms.     These  lines  were  written  beneath : 

"  Cold  on  Canadian  hills,  or  Minden's  plain, 
Perhaps  that  mother  wept  her  soldier  slain  ; 
Bent  o'er  her  babe,  her  eye  dissolved  in  dew,  — 
The  big  drops  mingling  with  the  milk  he  drew, 
Gave  the  sad  presage  of  his  future  years, 
The  child  of  misery,  baptized  in  tears," 

Burns  seemed  much  affected  by  the  print,  or  rather  by  the  ideas 
which  it  suggested  to  his  mind.  He  actually  shed  tears.  He  asked 
whose  the  lines  were ;  and  it  chanced  that  nobody  but  myself  remem- 
bered that  they  occur  in  a  half-forgotten  poem  of  Langhorne's  called 
by  the  unpromising  title  of  "  The  Justice  of  Peace."  I  whispered  my 
information  to  a  friend  present;  he  mentioned  it  to  Burns,  who  re- 
warded me  with  a  look  and  a  word,  which,  though  of  mere  civility,  I 
then  received  and  still  recollect  with  very  great  pleasure. 

His  person  was  strong  and  robust ;  his  manners  rustic,  not  clown- 
ish ;  a  sort  of  dignified  plainness  and  simplicity,  which  received  part  of 
its  effect  perhaps  from  one's  knowledge  of  his  extraordinary  talents. 
His  features  are  represented  in  Mr.  Nasmyth's  picture :  but  to  me  it 
conveys  the  idea  that  they  are  diminished,  as  if  seen  in  perspective. 
I  think  his  countenance  was  more  massive  than  it  looks  in  any  of  the 
portraits.  I  should  have  taken  the  poet,  had  I  not  known  what  he 
was,  for  a  very  sagacious  country  farmer  of  the  old  Scotch  school,  i.e., 
none  of  your  modern  agriculturists  who  kept  laborers  for  their  drudg- 
ery, but  the  douce  gudeman  who  held  his  own  plough.  There  was  a 
strong  expression  of  sense  and  shrewdness  in  all  his  lineaments  ;  the 
eye  alone,  I  think,  indicated  the  poetical  character  and  temperament. 
It  was  large,  and  of  a  dark  cast,  which  glowed  (I  say  literally  glowed) 
when  he  spoke  with  feeling  or  interest.  I  never  saw  such  another  eye 
in  a  human  head,  though  T  have  seen  the  most  distinguished  men  of 
my  time.  His  conversation  expressed  perfect  self-confidence,  without 
the  slightest  presumption.  Among  the  men  who  were  the  most  learned 
of  their  time  and  country,  he  expressed  himself  with  perfect  firmness, 


Burns.  45 

but  without  the  leastlntrusive  forwardness  ;  and  when  he  differed  in 
opinion,  he  did  not  hesitate  to  express  it  firmly,  yet  at  the  same  time 
with  modesty.  I  do  not  remember  any  part  of  his  conversation  dis- 
tinctly enough  to  be  quoted ;  nor  did  I  ever  see  him  again,  except  in 
the  street,  where  he  did  not  recognize  me,  as  I  could  not  expect  he 
should.  He  was  much  caressed  in  Edinburgh :  but  (considering  what 
literary  emoluments  have  been  since  his  day)  the  efforts  made  for  his 
relief  were  extremely  trifling. 

I  remember,  on  this  occasion  I  mention,  I  thought  Burns' s  acquaint- 
ance with  English  poetry  was  rather  limited;  and  also  that,  having 
twenty  times  the  abilities  of  Allan  Ramsay  and  of  Ferguson,  he  talked 
of  them  with  too  much  humility  as  his  models :  there  was  doubtless 
national  predilection  in  his  estimate. 

This  is  all  I  can  tell  you  about  Burns.  I  have  only  to  add,  that 
his  dress  corresponded  with  his  manner.  He  was  like  a  farmer  dressed 
in  his  best  to  dine  with  the  laird.  I  do  not  speak  in  malam  partem, 
when  I  say,  I  never  saw  a  man  in  company  with  his  superiors  in  sta- 
tion or  information  more  perfectly  free  from  either  the  reality  or  the 
affectation  of  embarrassment.  I  was  told,  but  did  not  observe  it,  that 
his  address  to  females  was  extremely  deferential,  and  always  with  a 
turn  either  to  the  pathetic  or  humorous,  which  engaged  their  attention 
particularly.  I  have  heard  the  late  Duchess  of  Gordon  remark  this. 
—  I  do  not  know  anything  I  can  add  to  these  recollections  of  forty 
years  since.' 

The  conduct  of  Burns  under  this  dazzling  blaze  of  favor; 
the  calm,  unaffected,  manly  manner  in  which  he  not  only 
bore  it,  but  estimated  its  value,  has  justly  been  regarded 
as  the  best  proof  that  could  be  given  of  his  real  vigor  and 
integrity  of  mind.  A  little  natural  vanity,  some  touches 
of  hypocritical  modesty,  some  glimmerings  of  affectation, 
at  least  some  fear  of  being  thought  affected,  we  could  have 
pardoned  in  almost  any  man;  but  no  such  indication  is  to 
be  traced  here.  In  his  unexampled  situation  the  young 
peasant  is  not  a  moment  perplexed;  so  many  strange  lights 
do  not  confuse  him,  do  not  lead  him  astray.  Nevertheless, 
we  cannot  but  perceive  that  this  winter  did  him  great  and 
lasting  injury.  A  somewhat  clearer  knowledge  of  men's 
affairs,  scarcely  of  their  characters,  it  did  afford  him;   but 


46  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

a  sharper  feeling  of  Fortune's  unequal  arrangements  in 
their  social  destiny  it  also  left  with  him.'  He  had  seen  the 
gay  and  gorgeous  arena,  in  which  the  powerful  are  born  to 
play  their  parts;  nay,  had  himself  stood  in  the  midst  of 
it;  and  he  felt  more  bitterly  than  ever,  that  here  he  was 
but  a  looker-on,  and  had  no  part  or  lot  in  that  splendid 
game.  From  this  time  a  jealous  indignant  fear  of  social 
degradation  takes  possession  of  him;  and  perverts,  so  far 
as  aught  could  pervert,  his  private  contentment,  and  his 
feelings  towards  his  richer  fellows.  It  was  clear  to  Burns 
that  he  had  talent  enough  to  make  a  fortune,  or  a  hundred 
fortunes,  could  he  but  have  rightly  willed  this;  it  was 
clear  also  that  he  willed  something  far  different,  and  there- 
fore could  not  make  one.  Unhappy  it  was  that  he  had  not 
power  to  choose  the  one,  and  reject  the  other;  but  must 
halt  forever  between  two  opinions,  two  objects;  making 
hampered  advancement  towards  either.  But  so  is  it  with 
many  men:  we  'long  for  the  merchandise,  yet  would  fain 
keep  the  price ; '  and  so  stand  chaffering  with  Fate,  in  vexa- 
tious altercation,  till  the  night  come,  and  our  fair  is  over! 
The  Edinburgh  Learned  of  that  period  were  in  general 
more  noted  for  clearness  of  head  than  for  warmth  of  heart : 
with  the  exception  of  the  good  old  Blacklock,  whose  help 
was  too  ineffectual,  scarcely  one  among  them  seems  to  have 
looked  at  Burns  with  any  true  sympathy,  or  indeed  much 
otherwise  than  as  at  a  highly  curious  thing.  By  the  great 
also  he  is  treated  in  the  customary  fashion;  entertained  at 
their  tables  and  dismissed :  certain  modica  of  pudding  and 
praise  are,  from  time  to  time,  gladly  exchanged  for  the 
fascination  of  his  presence;  which  exchange  once  effected, 
the  bargain  is  finished,  and  each  party  goes  his  several  way. 
At  the  end  of  this  strange  season,  Burns  gloomily  sums  up 
his  gains  and  losses,  and  meditates  on  the  chaotic  future. 
In  mone}^  he  is  somewhat  richer;  in  fame  and  the  show  of 
ha])piness,  infinitely  richer;  but  in  the  substance  of  it,  as 


Burns.  47 

poor  as  ever.  Nay,  poorer ;  for  his  heart  is  now  maddened 
still  more  with  the  fever  of  worldly  Ambition ;  and  through 
long  years  the  disease  will  rack  him  with  unprofitable  suf- 
ferings, and  weaken  his  strength  for  all  true  and  nobler 
aims. 

What  Burns  was  next  to  do  or  to  avoid;  how  a  man  so 
circumstanced  was  now  to  guide  himself  towards  his  true 
advantage,  might  at  this  point  of  time  have  been  a  question 
for  the  wisest.  It  was  a  question,  too,  which  apparently 
he  was  left  altogether  to  answer  for  himself:  of  his  learned 
or  rich  patrons  it  had  not  struck  any  individual  to  turn  a 
thought  on  this  so  trivial  matter.  Without  claiming  for 
Burns  the  praise  of  perfect  sagacity,  we  must  say  that 
his  Excise  and  Farm  scheme  does  not  seem  to  us  a  very 
unreasonable  one;  that  we  should  be  at  a  loss,  even  now, 
to  suggest  one  decidedly  better.  Certain  of  his  admirers 
have  felt  scandalized  at  his  ever  resolving  to  gauge;  and 
would  have  had  him  lie  at  the  pool,  till  the  spirit  of  Pat- 
ronage stirred  the  waters,  that  so,  with  one  friendly  plunge, 
all  his  sorrows  might  be  healed.  Unwise  counsellors! 
They  know  not  the  manner  of  this  spirit;  and  how,  in  the 
lap  of  most  golden  dreams,  a  man  might  have  happiness, 
were  it  not  that  in  the  interim  he  must  die  of  hunger !  It 
reflects  credit  on  the  manliness  and  sound  sense  of  Burns, 
that  he  felt  so  early  on  what  ground  he  was  standing;  and 
preferred  self-help,  on  the  humblest  scale,  to  dependence 
and  inaction,  though  with  hope  of  far  more  splendid  possi- 
bilities. But  even  these  possibilities  were  not  rejected  in 
his  scheme :  he  might  expect,  if  it  chanced  that  he  had  any 
friend,  to  rise,  in  no  long  period,  into  something  even  like 
opulence  and  leisure;  while  again,  if  it  chanced  that  he 
had  no  friend,  he  could  still  live  in  security;  and  for  the 
rest,  he  'did  not  intend  to  borrow  honor  from  any  profes- 
sion.' We  think,  then,  that  his  plan  vv^as  honest  and  well- 
calculated  :  all  turned  on  the  execution  of  it.     Doubtless  it 


48  Selections  from   Carlyle, 

failed;  yet  not,  we  believe,  from  any  vice  inherent  in  itself. 
Xay,  after  all,  it  was  no  failure  of  external  means,  but  of 
internal,  that  overtook  Burns.  His  was  no  bankruptcy  of 
the  purse,  but  of  the  soul ;  to  his  last  day,  he  owed  no  man 
anything. 

Meanwhile  he  begins  well:  with  two  good  and  wise 
actions.  His  donation  to  his  mother,  munificent  from  a 
man  whose  income  had  lately  been  seven  pounds  a-year, 
was  worthy  of  him,  and  not  more  than  worthy.  Generous 
also,  and  worthy  of  him,  was  his  treatment  of  the  woman 
whose  life's  welfare  now  depended  on  his  pleasure.  A 
friendly  observer  might  have  hoped  serene  days  for  him : 
his  mind  is  on  the  true  road  to  23eace  with  itself:  what 
clearness  he  still  wants  will  be  given  as  he  proceeds ;  for 
the  best  teacher  of  duties  that  still  lie  dim  to  us,  is  the 
Practice  of  those  we  see  and  have  at  hand.  Had  the 
'patrons  of  genius,'  who  could  give  him  nothing,  but  taken 
nothing  from  him,  at  least  nothing  more !  The  wounds  of 
his  heart  would  have  healed;  vulgar  ambition  would  have 
died  away.  Toil  and  Frugality  would  have  been  welcome, 
since  Virtue  dwelt  with  them;  and  Poetry  would  have 
shone  through  them  as  of  old:  and  in  her  clear  ethereal 
light,  which  was  his  own  by  birthright,  he  might  have 
looked  down  on  his  earthly  destiny  and  all  its  obstruc- 
tions, not  with  patience  only,  but  with  love. 

But  the  patrons  of  genius  would  not  have  it  so.  Pictur- 
esque tourists,*  all  manner  of  fashionable  danglers  after 

*  There  is  one  little  sketch  by  certain '  English  gentlemen '  of  this  class, 
which,  though  adopted  in  Currie's  Narrative,  and  since  then  repeated  in 
most  others,  we  have  all  along  felt  an  invincible  disposition  to  regard  as 
imaginary  :  '  On  a  rock  that  projected  into  the  stream,  they  saw  a  man 
employed  in  angling,  of  a  singular  appearance.  He  had  a  cap  made  of  fox 
skin  on  his  head,  a  loose  greatcoat  fixed  round  him  by  a  belt,  from  which 
depended  an  enormous  Highland  broad-sword.  It  was  Burns.'  Now,  we 
rather  think,  it  was  not  Burns.  For,  to  say  nothing  of  the  fox-skin  cap,  the 
loose  and  quite  Hibernian  watchcoat  with  the  belt,  what  are  we  to  make  of 
this  '  enormous  Highland  broad-sword  '  depending  from  him  ?    More  espe- 


Burns.  49 

literature,  and,  far  worse,  all  manner  of  convivial  Maece- 
nases, hovered  round  him  in  his  retreat;  and  his  good  as 
well  as  his  weak  qualities  secured  them  influence  over  him. 
He  was  flattered  by  their  notice;  and  his  warm  social 
nature  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  shake  them  off,  and 
hold  on  his  way  apart  from  them.  These  men,  as  we 
believe,  were  proximately  the  means  of  his  ruin.  Xot 
that  they  meant  him  any  ill;  they  only  meant  themselves 
a  little  good;  if  he  suffered  harm,  let  him  look  to  it!  But 
they  wasted  his  precious  time  and  his  precious  talent;  they 
disturbed  his  composure,  broke  down  his  returning  habits 
of  temperance  and  assiduous  contented  exertion.  Their 
pampering  was  baneful  to  him;  their  cruelty,  which  soon 
followed,  was  equally  baneful.  The  old  grudge  against 
Fortune's  inequality  awoke  with  new  bitterness  in  their 
neighborhood;  and  Burns  had  no  retreat  but  to  'the  Kock 
of  Independence,'  which  is  but  an  air-castle  after  all,  that 
looks  well  at  a  distance,  but  will  screen  no  one  from  real 
wind  and  wet.  Flushed  with  irregular  excitement,  exas- 
perated alternately  by  contempt  of  others  and  contempt  of 
himself.  Burns  was  no  longer  regaining  his  peace  of  mind, 
but  fast  losing  it  forever.  There  was  a  hollowness  at  the 
heart  of  his  life,  for  his  conscience  did  not  now  approve 
what  he  was  doing. 

Amid  the  vapors  of  unwise  enjoyment,  of  bootless  re- 
morse, and  angry  discontent  with  Fate,  his  true  loadstar,  a 
life  of  Poetry,  with  Poverty,  nay,  with  Famine  if  it  must 
be  so,  was  too  often  altogether  hidden  from  his  eyes.  And 
yet  he  sailed  a  sea  where  without  some  such  loadstar  there 
was  no  right  steering.      Meteors  of  French  Politics  rise 

daily,  as  there  is  no  word  of  parish  constables  on  the  outlook  to  see  whether, 
as  Dennis  phrases  it,  he  had  an  eye  to  his  own  midriff  or  that  of  the  pub- 
lic !  Burns,  of  all  men,  had  the  least  need,  and  the  least  tendency,  to  seek 
for  distinction  either  in  his  own  eyes  or  those  of  others,  by  such  poor 
mummeries. 

E 


50  Selections  fi^om   Carlyle. 

before  liim,  but  these  were  not  Ms  stars.  An  accident  this, 
which  hastened,  but  did  not  originate,  his  worst  distresses. 
In  the  mad  contentions  of  that  time,  he  comes  in  col- 
lision with  certain  official  Superiors;  is  wounded  by  them; 
cruelly  lacerated,  we  should  say,  could  a  dead  mechanical 
implement,  in  any  case,  be  called  cruel:  and  shrinks,  in 
indignant  pain,  into  deeper  self-seclusion,  into  gloomier 
moodiness  than  ever.  His  life  has  now  lost  its  unity :  it  is 
a  life  of  fragments ;  led  with  little  aim,  beyond  the  melan- 
choly one  of  securing  its  own  continuance, —  in  fits  of  wild 
false  joy  when  such  offered,  and  of  black  despondency  when 
they  passed  away.  His  character  before  the  world  begins 
to  suffer :  calumny  is  busy  with  him ;  for  a  miserable  man 
makes  more  enemies  than  friends.  Some  faults  he  has 
fallen  into,  and  a  thousand  misfortunes;  but  deep  crimi- 
nality is  what  he  stands  accused  of,  and  they  that  are  not 
without  sin  cast  the  first  stone  at  him!  For  is  he  not 
a  well-wisher  to  the  French  Revolution,  a  Jacobin,  and 
therefore  in  that  one  act  guilty  of  all?  These  accusations, 
political  and  moral,  it  has  since  appeared,  were  false 
enough:  but  the  world  hesitated  little  to  credit  them. 
Nay,  his  convivial  Maecenases  themselves  were  not  the  last 
to  do  it.  There  is  reason  to  believe  that,  in  his  later  years, 
the  Dumfries  Aristocracy  had  partly  withdrawn  themselves 
from  Burns,  as  from  a  tainted  person  no  longer  worthy  of 
their  acquaintance.  That  painful  class,  stationed,  in  all 
provincial  cities,  behind  the  outmost  breastwork  of  Gen- 
tility, there  to  stand  siege  and  do  battle  against  the  in- 
trusions of  G-rocerdom  and  Grazierdom,  had  actually  seen 
dishonor  in  the  society  of  Burns,  and  branded  him  with 
their  veto;  had,  as  we  vulgarly  say,  cut  him!  AVe  find  one 
passage  in  this  Work  of  Mr.  Lockhart's,  which  will  not  out 
of  our  thoughts : 

'  A  gentleman  of  that  county,  whose  name  I  have  already  more  than 
once  had  occasion  to  refer  to,  has  often  told  me  that  he  was  seldom 


Burns.  51 

more  grieved  than  when,  riding  into  Dumfries  one  fine  summer  even- 
ing about  this  time  to  attend  a  county  ball,  he  saw  Burns  walking 
alone,  on  the  shady  side  of  the  principal  street  of  the  town,  while  the 
opposite  side  was  gay  with  successive  groups  of  gentlemen  and  ladies, 
all  drawn  together  for  the  festivities  of  the  night,  not  one  of  whom 
appeared  willing  to  recognize  him.  The  horseman  dismounted,  and 
joined  Burns,  who  on  his  proposing  to  cross  the  street  said:  "Xay, 
nay,  my  young  friend,  that's  all  over  now;"  and  quoted,  after  a 
pause,  some  verses  of  Lady  Grizzel  Baillie's  pathetic  ballad : 

"  His  bonnet  stood  ance  fu'  fair  on  his  brow, 
His  auld  ane  look'd  better  than  mony  ane's  new  ; 
But  now  he  lets  't  wear  ony  way  it  will  hing. 
And  casts  himsel  dowie  upon  the  coru-bing. 

0,  were  we  young  as  we  ance  hae  been, 

We  suld  hae  been  galloping  down  on  yon  green, 

And  linking  it  ower  the  lily-white  lea  ! 

And  icerena  my  heart  light,  I  wad  die.'''' 

It  was  little  in  Burns's  character  to  let  his  feelings  on  certain  subjects 
escape  in  this  fashion.  He,  immediately  after  reciting  these  verses, 
assumed  the  sprightliness  of  his  most  pleasing  manner;  and  taking 
his  young  friend  home  with  him,  entertained  him  very  agreeably  till 
the  hour  of  the  ball  arrived.' 

Alas!  when  we  think  that  Burns  now  sleeps  'where  bitter 
indignation  can  no  longer  lacerate  his  heart/*  and  that 
most  of  those  fair  dames  and  frizzled  gentlemen  already 
lie  at  his  side,  where  the  breastwork  of  gentility  is  quite 
thrown  down, — who  would  not  sigh  over  the  thin  delu- 
sions and  foolish  toys  that  divide  heart  from  heart,  and 
make  man  unmerciful  to  his  brother ! 

It  was  not  now  to  be  hoped  that  the  genius  of  Burns 
would  ever  reach  maturity,  or  accomplish  aught  worthy 
of  itself.  His  spirit  was  jarred  in  its  melody;  not  the 
soft  breath  of  natural  feeling,  but  the  rude  hand  of  Fate, 
was  now  sweeping  over  the  strings.  And  yet  what  har- 
mony was  in  him,  what  music  even  in  his  discords !     How 

*  Uhi  sseua  indignatio  cor  ulterius  lacerare  nequit.    Swift's  Epitaph. 


52  Selectio7is  from   Carlyle. 

the  wild  tones  had  a  charm  for  the  simplest  and  the  wisest; 
and  all  men  felt  and  knew  that  here  also  was  one  of  the 
Gifted!  'If  he  entered  an  inn  at  midnight,  after  all  the 
inmates  were  in  bed,  the  news  of  his  arrival  circulated 
from  the  cellar  to  the  garret;  and  ere  ten  minutes  had 
elapsed,  the  landlord  and  all  his  guests  were  assembled ! ' 
Some  brief  pure  moments  of  poetic  life  were  yet  appointed 
him,  in  the  composition  of  his  Songs.  AVe  can  understand 
how  he  grasped  at  this  employment;  and  how  too,  he 
spurned  all  other  reward  for  it  but  what  the  labor  itself 
brought  him.  For  the  soul  of  Burns,  though  scathed  and 
marred,  was  yet  living  in  its  full  moral  strength,  though 
sharply  conscious  of  its  errors  and  abasement:  and  here, 
in  his  destitution  and  degradation,  was  one  act  of  seeming 
nobleness  and  self-devotedness  left  even  for  him  to  per- 
form. He  felt  too,  that  with  all  the  ^thoughtless  follies ' 
that  had  'laid  him  low,'  the  world  was  unjust  and  cruel  to 
him;  and  he  silently  appealed  to  another  and  calmer  time. 
Not  as  a  hired  soldier,  but  as  a  patriot,  would  he  strive  for 
the  glory  of  his  country:  so  he  cast  from  him  the  poor  six- 
pence a-day,  and  served  zealously  as  a  volunteer.  Let  us 
not  grudge  him  this  last  luxury  of  his  existence;  let  him 
not  have  appealed  to  us  in  vain!  The  money  was  not 
necessary  to  him;  he  struggled  through  without  it:  long 
since,  these  guineas  would  have  been  gone ;  and  now  the 
high-mindedness  of  refusing  them  will  plead  for  him  in 
all  hearts  forever. 

We  are  here  arrived  at  the  crisis  of  Burns's  life;  for 
matters  had  now  taken  such  a  shape  with  him  as  could  not 
long  continue.  If  improvement  was  not  to  be  looked  for. 
Nature  could  only  for  a  limited  time  maintain  this  dark 
and  maddening  warfare  against  the  world  and  itself.  We 
are  not  medically  informed  whether  any  continuance  of 
years  was,  at  this  period,  probable  for  Burns;  whether  his 
death  is  to  be  looked  on  as  in  some  sense  an  accidental 


Burns.  63 

event,  or  only  as  the  natural  consequence  of  the  long  series 
of  events  that  had  preceded.  The  latter  seems  to  be  the 
likelier  oi^inion;  and  yet  it  is  by  no  means  a  certain  one. 
At  all  events,  as  we  have  said,  some  change  could  not  be 
very  distant.  Three  gates  of  deliverance,  it  seems  to  us, 
were  open  for  Burns :  clear  poetical  activity;  madness;  or 
death.  The  first,  with  longer  life,  was  still  possible, 
though  not  probable;  for  physical  causes  were  beginning 
to  be  concerned  in  it :  and  yet  Burns  had  an  iron  resolu- 
tion; could  he  but  have  seen  and  felt,  that  not  only  his 
highest  glory,  but  his  first  duty,  and  the  true  medicine 
for  all  his  woes,  lay  here.  The  second  was  still  less 
probable;  for  his  mind  was  ever  among  the  clearest  and 
firmest.  So  the  milder  third  gate  was  opened  for  him :  and 
he  passed,  not  softly,  yet  speedily,  into  that  still  country 
where  the  hail-storms  and  fire-showers  do  not  reach,  and 
the  heaviest-laden  wayfarer  at  length  lays  down  his  load! 

Contemplating  this  sad  end  of  Burns,  and  how  he  sank 
unaided  by  any  real  help,  uncheered  by  any  wise  sympathy, 
generous  minds  have  sometimes  figured  to  themselves,  with 
a  reproachful  sorrow,  that  much  might  have  been  done  for 
him;  that  by  counsel,  true  affection,  and  friendly  minis- 
trations, he  might  have  been  saved  to  himself  and  the 
world.  We  question  whether  there  is  not  more  tenderness 
of  heart  than  soundness  of  judgment  in  these  suggestions. 
It  seems  dubious  to  us  whether  the  richest,  wisest,  most 
benevolent  individual  could  have  lent  Burns  any  effectual 
help.  Counsel,  which  seldom  profits  any  one,  he  did  not 
need;  in  his  understanding,  he  knew  the  right  from  the 
wrong,  as  well  perhaps  as  any  man  ever  did;  but  the  per- 
suasion which  would  have  availed  him,  lies  not  so  much  in 
the  head  as  in  the  heart,  where  no  argument  or  expostula- 
tion could  have  assisted  much  to  implant  it.  As  to  money 
again,  we  do  not  believe  that  this  was  his  essential  want; 


54  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

or  well  see  how  any  private  man  could,  even  presupposing 
Burns's  consent,  have  bestowed  on  him  an  independent  tor- 
tune,  with  much  prospect  of  decisive  advantage.  It  is  a 
mortifying  truth,  that  two  men,  in  any  rank  of  society, 
could  hardly  be  found  virtuous  enough  to  give  money,  and 
'  to  take  it  as  a  necessary  gift,  without  injury  to  the  moral 
entireness  of  one  or  both.  But  so  stands  the  fact :  Friend- 
ship, in  the  old  heroic  sense  of  that  term,  no  longer  exists  5 
except  in  the  cases  of  kindred  or  other  legal  affinity,  it  is 
in  reality  no  longer  expected,  or  recognized  as  a  virtue 
among  men.  A  close  observer  of  manners  has  pronounced 
'Patronage,'  that  is,  pecuniary  or  other  economic  further- 
ance, to  be  'twice  cursed;'  cursing  him  that  gives,  and 
him  that  takes !  And  thus,  in  regard  to  outward  matters 
also  it  has  become  the  rule,  as  in  regard  to  inward  it 
always  was  and  must  be  the  rule,  that  no  one  shall  look  for 
effectual  help  to  another;  but  that  each  shall  rest  contented 
with  what  help  he  can  afford  himself.  Such,  we  say,  is 
the  principle  of  modern  Honor;  naturally  enough  growing 
out  of  that  sentiment  of  Pride,  which  we  inculcate  and 
encourage  as  the  basis  of  our  whole  social  morality.  Many 
a  poet  has  been  poorer  than  Burns;  but  no  one  was  ever 
prouder:  we  may  question  whether,  without  great  precau- 
tions, even  a  pension  from  Eoyalty  would  not  have  galled 
and  encumbered,  more  than  actually  assisted  him. 

Still  less,  therefore,  are  we  disposed  to  join  with  another 
class  of  Burns's  admirers,  who  accuse  the  higher  ranks 
among  us  of  having  ruined  Burns  by  their  selfish  neglect  of 
him.  We  have  already  stated  our  doubts  whether  direct 
pecuniary  help,  had  it  been  offered,  would  have  been 
accepted,  or  could  have  proved  very  effectual.  We  shall 
readily  admit,  however,  tliat  much  was  to  be  done  for 
Burns;  that  many  a  poisoned  arrow  might  have  been 
warded  from  his  bosom;  many  an  entanglement  in  his 
path,  cut  asunder  by  the  hand  of  the  powerful;  and  liglit 


Burns.  55 

and  heat,  shed  on  him  from  high  places,  would  have  made 
his  humble  atmosphere  more  genial;  and  the  softest  heart 
then  breathing  might  have  lived  and  died  with  some  fewer 
pangs.  Nay,  we  shall  grant  farther,  and  for  Burns  it  is 
granting  much,  that,  with  all  his  pride,  he  would  have 
thanked,  even  with  exaggerated  gratitude,  any  one  who 
had  cordially  befriended  him:  patronage,  unless  once 
cursed,  needed  not  to  have  been  twice  so.  At  all  events, 
the  poor  promotion  he  desired  in  his  calling  might  have 
been  granted:  it  was  his  own  scheme,  therefore  likelier 
than  any  other  to  be  of  service.  All  this  it  might  have 
been  a  luxury,  nay,  it  was  a  duty,  for  our  nobility  to  have 
done.  No  part  of  all  this,  however,  did  any  of  them  do; 
or  apparently  attempt,  or  wish  to  do :  so  much  is  granted 
against  them.  But  what  then  is  the  amount  of  their 
blame?  Simply  that  they  were  men  of  the  world,  and 
walked  by  the  principles  of  such  men;  that  they  treated 
Burns,  as  other  nobles  and  other  commoners  had  done 
other  poets;  as  the  English  did  Shakspeare;  as  King 
Charles  and  his  Cavaliers  did  Butler,  as  King  Philip  and 
his  Grandees  did  Cervantes.  Do  men  gather  grapes  of 
thorns;  or  shall  we  cut  down  our  thorns  for  yielding  only 
a  fence  and  haws?  How,  indeed,  could  the  'nobility  and 
gentry  of  his  native  land'  hold  out  any  help  to  this  'Scot- 
tish Bard,  proud  of  his  name  and  country'?  Were  the 
nobility  and  gentry  so  much  as  able  rightly  to  help  them- 
selves? Had  they  not  their  game  to  preserve;  their 
borough  interests  to  strengthen;  dinners,  therefore,  of 
various  kinds  to  eat  and  give?  Were  their  means  more 
than  adequate  to  all  this  business,  or  less  than  adequate? 
Less  than  adequate,  in  general;  few  of  them  in  reality  were 
richer  than  Burns;  many  of  them  were  poorer;  for  some- 
times they  had  to  wring  their  supplies,  as  with  thumb- 
screws, from  the  hard  hand,  and,  in  their  need  of  guineas, 
to  forget  their  duty  of  mercy:    which  Burns   was   never 


56  Selections  from  Carlyle. 

reduced  to  do.  Let  us  pity  and  forgive  them.  The  game 
they  preserved  and  shot,  the  dinners  they  ate  and  gave,  the 
borough  interests  they  strengthened,  the  little  Babylons 
they  severally  builded  by  the  glory  of  their  might,  are  all 
melted  or  melting  back  into  the  primeval  Chaos,  as  man's 
merely  selfish  endeavors  are  fated  to  do :  and  here  was  an 
action,  extending,  in  virtue  of  its  worldly  influence,  we 
may  say,  through  all  time ;  in  virtue  of  its  moral  nature, 
beyond  all  time,  being  immortal  as  the  Spirit  of  Goodness 
itself;  this  action  was  offered  them  to  do,  and  light  was 
not  given  them  to  do  it.  Let  us  pity  and  forgive  them. 
But  better  than  pity,  let  us  go  and  do  otherwise.  Human 
suffering  did  not  end  with  the  life  of  Burns;  neither  was 
the  solemn  mandate,  'Love  one  another,  bear  one  another's 
burdens,'  given  to  the  rich  only,  but  to  all  men.  True,  we 
shall  find  no  Burns  to  relieve,  to  assuage  by  our  aid  or  our 
pity;  but  celestial  natures,  groaning  under  the  fardels  of 
a  weary  life,  Ave  shall  still  find;  and  that  wretchedness 
which  Fate  has  rendered  voiceless  and  tuneless,  is  not  the 
least  wretched,  but  the  most. 

Still,  we  do  not  think  that  the  blame  of  Burns's  failure 
lies  chiefly  with  the  world.  The  world,  it  seems  to  us, 
treated  him  with  more,  rather  than  with  less,  kindness  than 
it  usually  shows  to  such  men.  It  has  ever,  we  fear,  shown 
but  small  favor  to  its  Teachers:  hunger  and  nakedness, 
perils  and  revilings,  the  prison,  the  cross,  the  poison-chalice, 
have,  in  most  times  and  countries,  been  the  market-price 
it  has  offered  for  Wisdom,  the  welcome  with  which  it  has 
greeted  those  who  have  come  to  enlighten  and  purify. 
Homer  and  Socrates,  and  the  Christian  Apostles,  belong  to 
old  days;  but  the  world's  Martyrology  was  not  completed 
with  these.  Roger  Bacon  and  Galileo  languish  in  priestly 
dungeons;  Tasso  pines  in  the  cell  of  a  madhouse;  Camoens 
dies  begging  on  the  streets  of  Lisbon.  So  neglected,  so 
^persecuted  they  the  Prophets,'  not  in  Judea  only,  but  in  all 


Burns.  57 

places  where  men  have  been.  We  reckon  that  every  poet  of 
Burns's  order  is,  or  should  be,  a  prophet  and  teacher  to  his 
age ;  that  he  has  no  right  to  expect  great  kindness  from  it, 
but  rather  is  bound  to  do  it  great  kindness ;  that  Burns,  in 
particular,  experienced  fully  the  usual  proportion  of  the 
world's  goodness;  and  that  the  blame  of  his  failure,  as  we 
have  said,  lies  not  chiefly  with  the  world. 

Where,  then,  does  it  lie?  We  are  forced  to  answer: - 
With  himself;  it  is  his  inward,  not  his  outward,  misfor- 
tunes that  bring  him  to  the  dust.  Seldom,  indeed,  is  it 
otherwise ;  seldom  is  a  life  morally  wrecked  but  the  grand 
cause  lies  in  some  internal  mal-arrangement,  some  want 
less  of  good  fortune  than  of  good  guidance.  Nature  fash- 
ions no  creature  without  implanting  in  it  the  strength 
needful  for  its  action  and  duration;  least  of  all  does  she 
so  neglect  her  masterpiece  and  darling,  the  poetic  soul. 
Neither  can  we  believe  that  it  is  in  the  power  of  any  exter- 
nal circumstances  utterly  to  ruin  the  mind  of  a  man ;  nay, 
if  proper  wisdom  be  given  him,  even  so  much  as  to  affect 
its  essential  health  and  beauty.  The  sternest  sum-total 
of  all  worldly  misfortunes  is  Death;  nothing  more  can  lie 
in  the  cup  of  human  woe :  yet  many  men,  in  all  ages,  have 
triumphed  over  Death,  and  led  it  captive;  converting  its 
physical  victory  into  a  moral  victory  for  themselves,  into 
a  seal  and  immortal  consecration  for  all  that  their  past  life 
had  achieved.  What  has  been  done,  may  be  done  again :  nay, 
it  is  but  the  degree  and  not  the  kind  of  such  heroism  that 
differs  in  different  seasons;  for  without  some  portion  of 
this  spirit,  not  of  boisterous  daring,  but  of  silent  fearless- 
ness, of  Self-denial  in  all  its  forms,  no  good  man,  in  anyy 
scene  or  time,  has  ever  attained  to  be  good. 

We  have  already  stated  the  error  of  Burns  ;  and  mourned 
over  it,  rather  than  blamed  it.  It  was  the  want  of  unity  in 
his  purposes,  of  consistency  in  his  aims ;  the  hapless  attempt 
to  mingle  in  friendly  union  the  common  spirit  of  the  world 


58  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

with  the  spirit  of  poetry,  which  is  of  a  far  different  and  alto- 
gether irreconcilable  nature.  Burns  was  nothing  wholly; 
and  Burns  could  be  nothing,  no  man  formed  as  he  was  can  be 
anything,  by  halves.  The  heart,  not  of  a  mere  hot-blooded, 
popular  Versemonger,  or  poetical  Restaurateur,  but  of  a  true 
Poet  and  Singer,  worthy  of  the  old  religious  heroic  times,  had 
been  given  him :  and  he  fell  in  an  age,  not  of  heroism  and 
.religion,  but  of  scepticism,  selfishness,  and  triviality,  when 
true  Nobleness  was  little  understood,  and  its  place  supplied 
by  a  hollow,  dissocial,  altogether  barren  and  unfruitful  prin 
ciple  of  Pride.  The  influences  of  that  age,  his  open,  kind, 
susceptible  nature,  to  say  nothing  of  his  highly  untoward 
situation,  made  it  more  than  usually  difficult  for  him  to  cast 
aside,  or  rightly  subordinate  ;  the  better  spirit  that  was 
within  him  ever  sternly  demanded  its  rights,  its  suprem- 
acy :  he  spent  his  life  in  endeavoring  to  reconcile  these  two ; 
and  lost  it,  as  he  must  lose  it,  without  reconciling  them. 

Burns  was  born  poor ;  and  born  also  to  continue  poor,  for 
he  Avould  not  endeavor  to  be  otherwise  :  this  it  had  been 
well  could  he  have  once  for  all  admitted,  and  considered  as 
finally  settled.  He  was  poor,  truly ;  but  hundreds  even  of 
his  own  class  and  order  of  minds  have  been  poorer,  yet  have 
suffered  nothing  deadly  from  it :  nay,  his  own  Father  had  a 
far  sorer  battle  with  ungrateful  destiny  than  his  was  ;  and 
he  did  not  yield  to  it,  but  died  courageously  warring,  and  to 
all  moral  intents  prevailing,  against  it.  True,  Burns  had 
little  means,  had  even  little  time  for  poetry,  his  only  real 
pursuit  and  vocation;  but.  so  much  the  more  precious  was 
what  little  he  had.  In  all  these  external  respects  his  case 
Avas  hard ;  but  very  far  from  the  hardest.  Poverty,  inces- 
sant drudgery,  and  much  worse  evils,  it  has  often  been  the 
lot  of  Poets  and  wise  men  to  strive  with,  and  their  ^\oyj  to 
conquer.  Locke  was  banished  as  a  traitor ;  and  wrote  his 
Essay  on  the  Human  Understanding  sheltering  himself  in  a 
Dutch  garret.     Was  Milton  rich  or  at  his  ease  when  he  com- 


Burns.  59 

posed  Paradise  Lost?  Not  only  low,  but  fallen  .from  a 
height ;  not  only  poor,  but  impoverished ;  in  darkness  and 
with  dangers  compassed  round,  he  sang  his  immortal  song, 
and  found  fit  audience,  though  few.  Did  not  Cervantes  fin- 
ish his  work,  a  maimed  soldier  and  in  prison  ?  Nay,  was  not 
the  Araucana.  which  Spain  acknowledges  as  its  Epic,  writ- 
ten without  even  the  aid  of  a  paper ;  on  scraps  of  leather, 
as  the  stout  fighter  and  voyager  snatched  any  moment  from 
that  wild  warfare  ? 

And  what,  then,  had  these  men,  which  Burns  wanted  ? 
Two  things  ;  both  which,  it  seems  to  us,  are  indispensable 
for  such  men.  They  had  a  true,  religious  principle  of  mor-  ■ 
als ;  and  a  single,  not  a  double  aim  in  their  activity.  They 
were  not  self-seekers  and  self-worshipers ;  but  seekers  and 
worshipers  of  something  far  better  than  Self.  Not  personal 
enjoyment  was  their  object ;  but  a  high,  heroic  idea  of  Keli- 
gion,  of  Patriotism,  of  heavenly  Wisdom,  in  one  or  the  other 
form,  ever  hovered  before  them ;  in  which  cause  they  neither 
shrank  from  suffering,  nor  called  on  the  earth  to  witness  it 
as  something  wonderful ;  but  patiently  endured,  counting  it 
blessedness  enough  so  to  spend  and  be  spent.  Thus  the 
'  golden-calf  of  Self-love,'  however  curiously  carved,  was 
not  their  Deity  ;  but  the  Invisible  Goodness,  which  alone  is 
man's  reasonable  service.  This  feeling  was  as  a  celestial 
fountain,  whose  streams  refreshed  into  gladness  and  beauty 
all  the  provinces  of  their  otherwise  too  desolate  existence. 
In  a  word,  they  willed  one  thing,  to  which  all  other  things 
were  subordinated  and  made  subservient;  and  therefore 
they  accomplished  it.  The  wedge  will  rend  rocks ;  but  its 
edge  must  be  sharp  and  single  :  if  it  be  double,  the  wedge  is 
bruised  in  pieces,  and  will  rend  nothing. 

Part  of  this  superiority  these  men  owed  to  their  age ;  in 
which  heroism  and  devotedness  were  still  practised,  or  at 
least  not  yet  disbelieved  in;  but  much  of  it  likewise  they  owed 
to  themselves.     With  Burns,  again,  it  was  different.     His 


60  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

morality,  in  most  of  its  practical  points,  is  that  of  a  mere 
worldly  man;  enjoyment,  in  a  finer  or  coarser  shape,  is  the 
only  thing  he  longs  and  strives  for.  A  noble  instinct  some- 
times raises  him  above  this  ;  but  an  instinct  only,  and  acting 
only  for  moments.  He  has  no  Eeligion ;  in  the  shallow  age 
wherein  his  days  were  cast,  Eeligion  was  not  discriminated 
from  the  New  and  Old  Light  forms  of  Religion ;  and  was, 
with  these,  becoming  obsolete  in  the  minds  of  men.  His 
heart,  indeed,  is  alive  with  a  trembling  adoration,  but  there 
is  no  temple  in  his  understanding.  He  lives  in  darkness 
and  in  the  shadow  of  doubt.  His  religion,  at  best,  is  an 
anxious  wish  ;  like  that  of  Rabelais,  '  a  great  Perhaps.' 

He  loved  Poetry  warmly,  and  in  his  heart ;  could  he  but 
have  loved  it  purely,  and  with  his  whole  undivided  heart,  it 
had  been  well.  For  Poetry,  as  Burns  could  have  followed 
it,  is  but  another  form  of  Wisdom,  of  Religion;  is  itself 
Wisdom  and  Religion.  But  this  also  was  denied  him.  His 
poetry  is  a  stray  vagrant  gleam,  which  will  not  be  extin- 
guished within  him,  yet  rises  not  to  be  the  true  light  of  his 
path,  but  is  often  a  wildfire  that  misleads  him.  It  was  not 
necessary  for  Burns  to  be  rich ;  to  be,  or  to  seem,  ^  indepen- 
dent : '  but  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  be  at  one  with  his 
own  heart ;  to  place  what  was  highest  in  his  nature  highest 
also  in  his  life :  '  to  seek  within  himself  for  that  consistency 
and  sequence,  which  external  events  would  forever  refuse 
him.'  He  was  born  a  poet ;  poetry  was  the  celestial  ele- 
ment of  his  being,  and  should  have  been  the  soul  of  his 
whole  endeavors.  Lifted  into  that  serene  ether,  whither 
he  had  wings  given  him  to  mount,  he  would  have  needed 
no  other  elevation :  poverty,  neglect,  and  all  evil  save  the 
desecration  of  himself  and  his  Art,  were  a  small  matter  to 
him ;  the  pride  and  the  passions  of  the  world  lay  far  beneath 
his  feet ;  and  he  looked  down  alike  on  noble  and  slave,  on 
prince  and  beggar,  and  all  that  wore  the  stamp  of  man,  with 
clear  recognition,  with  brotherly  affection,  with  sympathy, 


Burns.  61 

with  pity.  Nay,  we  question  whether,  for  his  culture  as  a 
Poet,  poverty  and  much  suffering  for  a  season  were  not  abso- 
hitely  advantageous.  Great  men,  in  looking  back  over  their 
lives,  have  testified  to  that  effect.  ^  I  would  not  for  much,' 
says  Jean  Paul,  'that  I  had  been  born  richer.'  And  yet 
Paul's  birth  was  poor  enough ;  for,  in  another  place,  he  adds : 
^The  prisoner's  allowance  is  bread  and  water;  and  I  had 
often  only  the  latter.'  But  the  gold  that  is  refined  in  the 
hottest  furnace  comes  out  the  purest ;  or,  as  he  has  himself 
expressed  it,  '  the  canary-bird  sings  sweeter  the  longer  it 
has  been  trained  in  a  darkened  cage.' 

A  man  like  Burns  might  have  divided  his  hours  between 
poetry  and  virtuous  industry ;  industry  which  all  true  feel- 
ing sanctions,  nay,  prescribes,  and  which  has  a  beauty,  for 
that  cause,  beyond  the  pomp  of  thrones :  but  to  divide  his 
hours  betAveen  poetry  and  rich  men's  banquets  was  an  ill- 
starred  and  inauspicious  attempt.  How  could  he  be  at  ease 
at  such  banquets  ?  What  had  he  to  do  there,  mingling  his 
music  with  the  coarse  roar  of  altogether  earthly  voices ; 
brightening  the  thick  smoke  of  intoxication  with  fire  lent 
him  from  heaven  ?  Was  it  his  aim  to  enjoy  life  ?  Tomorrow 
he  must  go  drudge  as  an  Exciseman !  We  wonder  not  that 
Burns  became  moody,  indignant,  and  at  times  an  offender 
against  certain  rules  of  society ;  but  rather  that  he  did  not 
grow  utterly  frantic,  and  run  amuck  against  them  all.  How 
could  a  man,  so  falsely  placed,  by  his  own  or  others'  fault, 
ever  know  contentment  or  peaceable  diligence  for  an  hour  ? 
What  he  did,  under  such  perverse  guidance,  and  what  he 
forbore  to  do,  alike  fill  us  with  astonishment  at  the  natural 
strength  and  worth  of  his  character. 

Doubtless  there  was  a  remedy  for  this  perverseness ;  but 
not  in  others  ;  only  in  himself ;  least  of  all  in  simple  increase 
of  wealth  and  worldly  '  respectability.'  We  hope  we  have 
now  heard  enough  about  the  efficacy  of  wealth  for  poetry, 
and  to  make  poets  happy.     Nay,  have  we  not  seen  another 


'62  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

instance  of  it  in  these  very  days  ?  Byron,  a  man  of  an 
endowment  considerably  less  ethereal  than  that  of  Burns,  is 
born  in  the  rank  not  of  a  Scottish  ploughman,  but  of  an 
English  peer :  the  highest  worldly  honors,  the  fairest  worldly 
career,  are  his  by  inheritance ;  the  richest  harvest  of  fame  he 
soon  reaps,  in  another  province,  by  his  own  hand.  And  what 
does  all  this  avail  him  ?  Is  he  happy,  is  he  good,  is  he  true  ? 
Alas,  he  has  a  poet's  soul,  and  strives  towards  the  Infinite 
and  the  Eternal ;  and  soon  feels  that  all  this  is  but  mount- 
ing to  the  house-top  to  reach  the  stars  !  Like  Burns,  he  is 
only  a  proud  man ;  might,  like  him,  have  ^  purchased  a 
pocket-copy  of  Milton  to  study  the  character  of  Satan ; '  for 
Satan  also  is  Byron's  grand  exemplar,  the  hero  of  his  poetry, 
and  the  model  apparently  of  his  conduct.  As  in  Burns's 
case,  too,  the  celestial  element  will  not  mingle  with  the  clay 
of  earth ;  both  poet  and  man  of  the  world  he  must  not  be ; 
vulgar  Ambition  will  not  live  kindly  with  poetic  Adoration ; 
he  cannot  serve  God  and  Mammon.  Byron,  like  Burns,  is 
not  happy  ;  nay,  he  is  the  most  wretched  of  all  men.  His 
life  is  falsely  arranged :  the  fire  that  is  in  him  is  not  a  strong, 
still,  central  fire,  warming  into  beauty  the  products  of  a 
world ;  but  it  is  the  mad  fire  of  a  volcano ;  and  now  —  we 
look  sadly  into  the  ashes  of  a  crater,  which  ere  long  will  fill 
itself  with  snow ! 

Byron  and  Burns  were  sent  forth  as  missionaries  to  their 
generation,  to  teach  it  a  higher  Doctrine,  a  purer  Truth ; 
they  had  a  message  to  deliver,  which  left  them  no  rest  till  it 
was  accomplished ;  in  dim  throes  of  pain,  this  divine  behest 
lay  smouldering  within  them ;  for  they  knew  not  what  it 
meant,  and  felt  it  only  in  mysterious  anticipation ;  and  they 
had  to  die  without  articulately  uttering  it.  They  are  in  the 
camp  of  the  Unconverted;  yet  not  as  high  messengers  of 
rigorous  though  benignant  truth,  but  as  soft  flattering  singers, 
and  in  pleasant  felloAvship,  will  they  live  there  :  they  are 
first  adulated,  then  persecuted;  they  accomplish  little  for 


Burns.  63 

others ;  tliey  find  no  peace  for  themselves,  but  only  death 
and  the  peace  of  the  grave.  We  confess,  it  is  not  without 
a  certain  mournful  awe  that  we  view  the  fate  of  these  noble 
souls,  so  richly  gifted,  yet  ruined  to  so  little  purpose  with 
all  their  gifts.  It  seems  to  us  there  is  a  stern  moral  taught 
in  this  piece  of  history,  —  twice  told  us  in  our  own  time ! 
Surely  to  men  of  like  genius,  if  there  be  any  such,  it  carries 
with  it  a  lesson  of  deep,  impressive  significance.  Surely  it, 
would  become  such  a  man,  furnished  for  the  highest  of  all\ 
enterprises,  that  of  being  the  Poet  of  his  Age,  to  consider  i 
well  what  it  is  that  he  attempts,  and  in  what  spirit  he ' 
attempts  it.  For  the  words  of  Milton  are  true  in  all  times, 
and  were  never  truer  than  in  this :  '  He  who  would  write 
heroic  poems  must  make  his  whole  life  a  heroic  poem.'  If 
he  cannot  first  so  make  his  life,  .then  let  him  hasten  from 
this  arena ;  for  neither  its  lofty  glories,  nor  its  fearful  perils, 
are  for  him.  Let  him  dwindle  into  a  modish  balladmonger ; 
let  him  worship  and  besing  the  idols  of  the  time,  and  the 
time  will  not  fail  to  reward  him.  If,  indeed,  he  can  endure 
to  live  in  that  capacity !  Byron  and  Burns  could  not  live  as 
idol-priests,  but  the  fire  of  their  own  hearts  consumed  them ; 
and  better  it  was  for  them  that  they  could  not.  For  it  is 
not  in  the  favor  of  the  great  or  of  the  small,  but  in  a  life 
of  truth,  and  in  the  inexpugnable  citadel  of  his  own  soul, 
that  a  Byron's  or  a  Burns's  strength  must  lie.  Let  the  great 
stand  aloof  from  him,  or  know  how  to  reverence  him. 
Beautiful  is  the  union  of  wealth  with  favor  and  furtherance 
for  literature;  like  the  costliest  flower-jar  enclosing  the 
loveliest  amaranth.  Yet  let  not  the  relation  be  mistaken. 
A  true  poet  is  not  one  whom  they  can  hire  by  money  or 
flattery  to  be  a  minister  of  their  pleasures,  their  writer  of 
occasional  verses,  their  purveyor  of  table-wit ;  he  cannot  be 
their  menial,  he  cannot  even  be  their  partisan.  At  the  peril 
of  both  parties,  let  no  such  union  be  attempted !  AVill  a 
Courser  of  the  Sun  work  softly  in  the  harness  of  a  Dray- 


64  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

horse  ?  His  hoofs  are  of  fire,  and  his  path  is  through  the 
heavens,  bringing  light  to  all  lands ;  will  he  lumber  on  mud 
highways,  dragging  ale  for  earthly  appetites  from  door  to 
door  ? 

But  we  must  stop  short  in  these  considerations,  which 
would  lead  us  to  boundless  lengths.  We  had  something  to 
say  on  the  public  moral  character  of  Burns ;  but  this  also 
we  must  forbear.  We  are  far  from  regarding  him  as  guilty 
before  the  world,  as  guiltier  than  the  average;  nay,  from 
doubting  that  he  is  less  guilty  than  one  of  ten  thousand. 
Tried  at  a  tribunal  far  more  rigid  than  that  where  the  Ple- 
biscita  of  common  civic  reputations  are  pronounced,  he  has 
seemed  to  us  even  there  less  worthy  of  blame  than  of  pity 
and  wonder.  But  the  world  is  habitually  unjust  in  its 
judgments  of  such  men;  unjust  on  many  grounds,  of  which 
this  one  may  be  stated  as  the  substance :  It  decides,  like  a 
court  of  law,  by  dead  statutes ;  and  not  positively  but  neg- 
atively, less  on  what  is  done  right,  than  on  what  is  or  is 
not  done  wrong.  Not  the  few  inches  of  deflection  from  the 
mathematical  orbit,  which  are  so  easily  measured,  but  the 
ratio  of  these  to  the  whole  diameter,  constitutes  the  real 
aberration.  This  orbit  may  be  a  planet's,  its  diameter  the 
breadth  of  the  solar  system;  or  it  may  be  a  city  hippo- 
drome ;  nay,  the  circle  of  a  ginhorse,  its  diameter  a  score 
of  feet  or  paces.  But  the  inches  of  deflection  only  are 
measured :  and  it  is  assumed  that  the  diameter  of  the  gin- 
horse,  and  that  of  the  planet,  will  yield  the  same  ratio  when 
compared  with  them  !  Here  lies  the  root  of  many  a  blind, 
_  cruel  condemnation  of  Burnses,  Swifts,  Eousseaus,  which 
one  never  listens  to  with  approval.  Granted,  the  ship 
comes  into  harbor  with  shrouds  and  tackle  damaged;  the 
pilot  is  blameworthy ;  he  has  not  been  all-wise  and  all- 
powerful  :  but  to  know  hoio  blameworthy,  tell  us  first 
whether  his  voyage  has  been  round  the  Globe,  or  only  to 
Bamsgate  and  the  Isle  of  Dogs. 


Biirns.  65 

With  our  readers  in  general,  with  men  of  right  feeling 
anywhere,  we  are  not  required  to  plead  for  Burns.  In  pity- 
ing admiration  he  lies  enshrined  in  all  our  hearts,  in  a  far 
nobler  mausoleum  than  that  one  of  marble ;  neither  will  his 
Works,  even  as  they  are,  pass  away  from  the  memory  of 
men.  While  the  Shakspeares  and  Miltons  roll  on  like 
mighty  rivers  through  the  country  of  Thought,  bearing 
fleets  of  traffickers  and  assiduous  pearl-fishers  on  their 
waves ;  this  little  Valclusa  Fountain  will  also  arrest  our 
eye:  for  this  also  is  of  Nature's  own  and  most  cunning 
workmanship,  bursts  from  the  depths  of  the  earth,  with  a 
full  gushing  current,  into  the  light  of  day ;  and  often  will 
the  traveler  turn  aside  to  drink  of  its  clear  waters,  and 
muse  among  its  rocks  and  pines! 


ON   HISTOKY. 

[Fraser's  Magazine,  No.  10.    1830.'\ 

Clio  was  figured  by  the  ancients  as  tlie  eldest  daughter 
of  Memory,  and  cliief  of  the  Muses  ;  wliich  dignity,  whether 
we  regard  the  essential  qualities  of  her  art,  or  its  practice 
and  acceptance  among  men,  we  shall  still  find  to  have  been 
fitly  bestowed.  History,  as.it  lies  at  the  root  of  all  science^ 
is  also  the  first  distinct  product  of  man's  spiritual  nature ; 
his  earliest  expression  of  what  can  be  called  Thought.  It 
is  a  looking  both  before  and  after ;  as,  indeed,  the  _comiii^ 
Time  already  waits,  unseen,  yet  definitely  shaped,  predeter- 
mined and  inevitable,  in  the  Time  come;  andjDnly  by  the 
combination  of  both  is  the  meaning  of  either  completed. 
The  Sibylline  Books,  though  old,  are  not  the  oldest.  Some 
nations  have  prophecy,  some  have  not :  but  of  all  mankind 
there  is  no  tribe  so  rude  that  it  has  not  attempted  History, 
though  several  have  not  arithmetic  enough  to  count  Five. 
History  has  been  written  with  quipo-threads,  with  feather- 
pictures,  with  wampum-belts ;  still  oftener  with  earth-mounds 
and  monumental  stone-heaps,  whether  as  pyramid  or  cairn ; 
for  the  Celt  and  the  Copt,  the  Eed  man  as  well  as  the 
White,  lives  between  two  eternities,  and,  warring  against 
Oblivion,  he  would  fain  unite  himself  in  clear  conscious 
relation,  as  in  dim  unconscious  relation  he  is  already  united, 
with  the  whole  Future  and  the  whole  Past. 

A  talent  for  History  may  be  said  to  be  born  with  us,  as 
our  chief  inheritance.     In  a  certain  sense  all  men  are  histo- 

GG 


On   History.  67 

rians.  Is  not  every  memory  written  quite  full  with  Annals, 
wherein  joy  and  mourning,  conquest  and  loss,  manifoldly 
alternate ;  and,  with  or  without  philosophy,  the  whole  for- 
tunes of  one  little  inward  Kingdom,  and  all  its  politics,  for- 
eign and  domestic,  stand  ineffaceably  recorded  ?  Our  very 
^speech  is  curiously  historical.  Most  men,  you  may  observe, 
S£eak_onlxJ:o  narrate  ;  not  in  imparting  what  they  have 
thought,  which  indeed  were  often  a  very  small  matter,  but 
in~exhibiting  what  they  have  undergone  or  seen,  which  is  a 
quite  unlimited  one,  do  talkers  dilate.  Cut  us  off  from  Xar- 
rative7how  woiiTd  the  stream  of  conversation,  even  among 
the  wisest,  languish  into  detached  handf uls,  and  among  the 
foolish  utterly  evaporate  !  Thus,  as  we  do  nothing  but  en- 
actffistory,.we  say  little  but  recite  it:  nay,  rather,  in  that 
widest  sense,  our  whole  spiritual  life  is  built  thereon.  For, 
strictly  considered,  what  is  all  Knowledge  tog  but  recorded 
Experience,  and  a  product  of  History ;  of  which,  therefore, 
;6eBBoniGg  and  Belief,  no  less  than  Action  and  Passion,  are 
essential  materials  ? 

Under  a  limited,  and  the  only  practicable  shape.  History 
proper,  that  part  of  History  Avhich  treats  of  remarkable 
action,  has,  in  all  modern  as  well  as  ancient  times,  ranked 
among  the  highest  arts ;  and  perhaps  never  stood  higher 
than  in  these  times  of  ours.  For  whereas,  of  old,  the  charm 
of  History  lay  chiefly  in  gratifying  our  common  appetite 
for  the  wonderful,  for  the  unknown,  and  her  office  was  but 
as  that  of  a  Minstrel  and  Story-teller,  she  has  now  farther 
become  a  Schoolmistress,  and  professes  to  instruct  in  grati- 
fying. Whether,  with  the  stateliness  of  that  venerable 
character,  'she  may  not  have  taken  up  something  of  its 
austerity  and  frigidity ;  whether,  in  the  logical  terse- 
ness of  a  Hume  or  Kobertson,  the  graceful  ease  and  gay 
pictorial  heartiness  of  a  Herodotus  or  Froissart  may  not 
be  wanting,  is  not  the  question  for  us  here.  Enough  that 
all  learners,  all  inquiring  minds  of  every  order,  are  gathered 


68  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

round  her  footstool,  and  reverently  pondering  her  lessons, 
as  the  true  basis  of  Wisdom.  Poetry,  Divinity,  Politics, 
Physics,  have  each  their  adherents  and  adversaries ;  each 
little  guild  supx^orting  a  defensive  and  offensive  war  for 
its  own  special  domain;  while  the  domain  of  History  is 
as  a  Free  Emporium,  where  all  these  belligerents  peace- 
ably meet  and  furnish  themselves  ;  and  Sentimentalist  and 
Utilitarian,  Sceptic  and  Theologian,  with  one  voice  advise 
us :  Examine  History,  for  it  is  '  Philosophy  teaching  by 
Experience.' 

Far  be  it  from  us  to  disparage  such  teaching,  the  very 
attempt  at  which  must  be  precious.  Neither  shall  we 
too  rigidly  inquire :  How  much  it  has  hitherto  profited  ? 
Whether  most  of  what  little  practical  wisdom  men  have, 
has  come  from  study  of  professed  History,  or  from  other 
less  boasted  sources ;  whereby,  as  matters  now  stand,  a  Marl- 
borough may  become  great  in  the  world's  business,  with  no 
History  save  what  he  derives  from  Shakspeare's  Plays  ? 
Nay,  whether  in  that  same  teaching  by  Experience,  histori- 
cal Philosophy  has  yet  properly  deciphered  the-first  element 
of  all  science  in  this  kind :  What  the  aim  and  significance 
of  that  wondrous  changeful  Life  it  investigates  and  paints 
may  be  ?  Whence  the  course  of  man's  destinies  in  this 
Earth  originated,  and  whither  they  are  tending?  Or, 
indeed,  if  they  have  any  course  and  tendency,  are  really 
guided  forward  by  an  unseen  mysterious  Wisdom,  or 
only  circle  in  blind  mazes  without  recognizable  guidance  ? 
Which  questions,  altogether  fundamental,  one  might  think, 
in  any  Philosophy  of  History,  have,  since  the  era  when 
Monkish  Annalists  were  wont  to  answer  them  by  the 
long-ago  extinguished  light  of  their  Missal  and  Brevi- 
ary, been  by  most  philosophical  Historians  only  glanced 
at  dubiously  and  from  afar ;  by  many,  not  so  much  as 
glanced  at. 

The  truth  is,  two  difficulties,  never  wholly  surmountable. 


On  History,  69 

lie  in  the  way.     Before  Philosophy  can  teach  by  Experience, 

_the^JiilosoplLyIiias--to  be  in  readiness,  the  Experience  must 

^be  gathered  and,,  intelligibly  recorded.  ISTow,  overlooking 
the  former  consideration,  and  with  regard  only  to  the  latter, 
let  any  one  who  has  examined  the  current  of  human  affairs, 

^and^^TCwjntricate,  perplexed,  unfathomable,  even  Avhen  seen 
into  with  our  own  eyes,  are  their  thousandfold  blending 
movements,  say  whether  the  true  representing  of  it  is  easy 

^oFinrpossible.  Social  Life  is  the  aggregate  of  all- the  indi- 
vidual men's  Lives  who  constitute  society ;  fHistory  is  the 

j-essence  of  innumerable  Biographies.  But  if  one  Biography, 
nay,  our  orwlTBiography,  study  and  recapitulate  it  as  we  may, 
remains  in  so  many  points  unintelligible  to  us,  how  much 
more  must  these  million;  the  very  facts  of  which,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  purport  of  them,  we  know  not,  and  cannot 
know ! 

f  Neither  will  it  adequately  avail  us  to  assert  that  the 
general  inward  condition  of  Life  is  the  same  in  all  ages; 
and  that  only  the  remarkable  deviations  from  the  common 
endowment  and  common  lot,  and  the  more  important  varia- 
tions which  the  outward  figure  of  Life  has  from  time  to 
time  undergone,  deserve  memory  and  record.  The  inward 
condition  of  Life,  it  may  rather  be  affirmed,  the  conscious* 
or  Traif =corrScTbus~aim  of  mankind,  so  far  as  men  are  not 
mere    digesting-machines,   is   the   same    in   no   two    ages ;" 

^eitheFafFTh^e  more  important  outward  variations  easy  to 
fix  on,  or  always  well  capable  of  representation.  Which 
was  the  greatest  innovator,  which  was  the  more  important 
personage  in  man's  history,  he  who  first  led  armies  over  the 
Alps,  and  gained  the  victories  of  Cannae  and  Thrasymene ; 
or  the  nameless  boor  who  first  hammered  out  for  himself  an 
iron  spade  ?  When  the  oak-tree  is  felled,  the  whole  forest 
echoes  with  it;  but  a  hundred  acorns  are  planted  silently 
by  some  unnoticed  breeze.  Battles  and  war-tumults,  which 
for  the  time  din  every  ear,  and  with  joy  or  terror  intoxicate 


TO  Selections  from    Carlyle. 

every  heart,  pass  away  like  tavern-brawls ;  and,  except 
some  few  Marathons  and  Morgartens,  are  remembered  by 
accident,  not  by  desert.  Laws  themselves,  political  Consti- 
tutions, are  not  our  Life,  but  only  the  house  wherein  our 
Life  is  led :  nay,  they  are  but  the  bare  walls  of  the  house ; 
all  whose  essential  furniture,  the  inventions  and  traditions 
and  daily  habits  that  regulate  and  support  our  existence,  are 
the  work  not  of  Dracos  and  Hampdens,  but  of  Phoenician 
mariners,  of  Italian  masons  and  Saxon  metallurgists,  of 
philosophers,  alchymists,  prophets,  and  all  the  long-forgotten 
train  of  artists  and  artisans ;  who  from  the  first  have  been 
jointly  teaching  us  how  to  think  and  how  to  act,  hdw  to  rule 
over  spiritual  and  over  physical  Nature.  Well  may  we  say 
that  of  our  History  the  more  important  part  is  lost  without 
recovery  ;  and,  —  as  thanksgivings  were  once  wont  to  be 
offered  'for  unrecognized  mercies,'  —  look  with  reverence 
into  the  dark  untenanted  places  of  the  Past,  where,  in  form- 
less oblivion,  our  chief  benefactors,  with  all  their  sedulous 
endeavors,  but  not  Avith  the  fruit  of  these,  lie  entombed. 

So  imperfect  is  that  same  Experience,  by  which  Philoso- 
phy is  to  teach.  Nay,  even  Avith  regard  to  those  occurrences 
which  do  stand  recorded,  which  at  their  origin  have  seemed 
worthy  of  record,  and  the  summary  of  which  constitutes 
what  we  now  call  History,  is  not  our  understanding  of 
them  altogether  incomplete ;  is  it  even  possible  to  represent 
them  as  they  were  ?  The  old  story  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh's 
looking  from  his  prison-window  on  some  street  tumult, 
which  afterwards  three  witnesses  reported  in  three  different 
ways,  himself  differing  from  them  all,  is  still  a  true  lesson 
for  us.  Consider  how  it  is  that  historical  documents  and 
records  originate ;  even  honest  records,  where  the  reporters 
were  unbiased  by  personal  regard ;  a  case  which,  were  noth- 
ing more  wanted,  must  ever  be  among  the  rarest.  The  real 
leading  features  of  a  historical  Transaction,  those  movements 
that  essentially  characterize   it,  and   alone   deserve   to   be 


On    History.  71 

recorded,  are  nowise  the  foremost  to  be  noted.  At  first, 
"aSTongthe  various  witnesses,  who  are  also  parties  interested, 
there  is  only  vague  wonder,  and  fear  or  hope,  and  the  noise 
of  Eumor's  thousand  tongues  ;  till,  after  a  season,  the  con- 
flict of  testimonies  has  subsided  into  some  general  issue  ; 
and  then  it  is  settled,  by  majority  of  votes,  that  such  and 
such  a  ^  Crossing  of  the  Eubicon,'  an  '  Impeachment  of 
Strafford,'  a  ^  Convocation  of  the  Notables,'  are  epochs  in 
the  world's  history,  cardinal  points  on  which  grand  world- 
revolutions  have  hinged.  Suppose,  however,  that  the  major- 
l?Ey^f  votes  was  all  wrong ;  that  the  real  cardinal  points  lay 
far  deeper ;  and  had  been  passed  over  unnoticed,  because 
no  Seer,  but  only  mere  Onlookers,  chanced  to  be  there  ! 
Our  clock  strikes  when  there  is  a  change  from  hour  to  hour ; 
but  no  hammer  in  the  Horologe  of  Time  peals  through  the 
universe  when  there  is  a  change  from  Era  to  Era.  Men 
understand  not  what  is  among  their  hands  :  as  calmness  is 
the  characteristic  of  strength,  so  the  weightiest  causes  may 
be  most  silent.  It  is,  in  no  case,  the  real  historical  Trans- 
action, but  only  some  more  or  less  plausible  scheme  and 
theory  of  the  Transaction,,  or  the  harmonized  result  of  many 
such  schemes,  each  varying  from  the  other  and  all  varying 
from  truth,  that  we  can  ever  hope  to  behold. 

Nay,  were  our  faculty  of  insight  into  passing  things  never 
SQ-jcoinplejte?,  there  is  still  a  fatal  discrepancy  between  our 
manner  of  observing  these,  and  their  manner  of  occurring. 
The  most  gifted  man  can  observe,  still  more  can  record,  only 
the  .smes  of  his  own  impressions  :  his  observation,  therefore, 
to  say  nothing  of  its  other  imperfections,  must  be  successive, 
while  the  things  done  were  often  siimt Itan eousj  the  thin gs 
done  were  not  a  series,  but  a  group.  It  is  notj.n_acted.  as  it 
is  injwi'itten  History:  actual  events  are  nowise  so  simply 
related  to  -each  other  as  parent  and  offspring  are;  every 
single  event  is  the  offspring  not  of  one,  but  of  all  other 
event"s7pi^iorl)Fcohtemporaneous,  and  will  in  its  turn  com- 


72  Selections  from   Carlyle, 

bine  with  all  others  to  gi-ve  birth  to  new:  it  is  an  ever-liv- 
mg,  ever-working  Chaos  of  Being,  wherein  shape  after  shape 
bodies  itself  forth  from  innumerable   elements.     And  this 
Chaos,  boundless  as  the  habitation  and  duration  of  man, 
unfathomable  as  the  soul  and  destiny  of  man,  is  what  the 
historian  will  depict,  and  scientifically  gauge,  we  may  say, 
by  threading  it  with  single  lines  of  a  few  ells  in  length! 
For  as  all  Action  is,  by  its  nature,  to  be  figured  as  extended 
in  breadth  and  in  depth,  as  well  as  in  length  ;  that  is  to  say, 
is  based  on  Passion  and  Mystery,  if  we  investigate  its  origin ; 
and  spreads  abroad  on  all  hands,  modifying  and  modified ; 
as  well  as  advances  toward  completion,  —  so  all  Narrative 
is,  by  its  nature,  of  only  one  dimension;  only  travels  for- 
ward towards  one,  or  towards  successive  jpoints  :  Narrative 
is  linear,  Action  is  solid.     Alas  for  our  '  chains,'  or  chain- 
lets, of  *  causes  and  effects,'  which  we  so  assiduously  track 
through  certain  handbreadths  of   years  and  square   miles, 
when  the  whole  is  a  broad,  deep  Immensity,  and  each  atom 
is  '  chained '  and  complected  with  all !     Truly,  if  History  is 
'Philosophy  teaching  by  Experience,'  the  writer  fitted  to 
compose  History  is  hitherto  an  unknown  man.     The  Experi- 
ence itself  would  require  All-knowledge  to  record  it,  —  were 
the  All-wisdom  needful  for  such  Philosophy  as  would  inter- 
pret it,  to  be  had  for  asking.     Better  were^  it  that  mere 
earthly  Historians  should  lower  such  pretensions,  more  suit- 
able for  Omniscience  than  for  human  science;  and,  aiming 
only  at  some  picture  of  the  things  acted,  which  picture  itself 
will  at  best  be  a  poor  approximation,  leave  the  inscrutable 
purport   of   them  an  acknowledged   secret;  or  at  most,  in 
reverent  Eaith,  far  different  from  that  teaching  of  Philos- 
ophy, pause  over  the  mysterious  vestiges  of  Him  whose  path 
is  in  the  great  deep  of  Time,  whom  History  indeed  reveals, 
but  only  all  History,  and  in  Eternity,  will  clearly  reveal. 

Such  considerations  truly  were  of  small  profit,  did  they, 
instead  of  teaching  us  vigilance  and  reverent  humility  in 


On   History.  73 

our  inquiries  into  History,  abate  our  esteem  for  them,  or 
discourage  us  from  unweariedly  prosecuting  them.  Let  us 
search  more  and  more  into  the  Past ;  let  all  men  explore  it, 
as  the  true  fountain  of  knowledge ;  by  whose  light  alone, 
consciously  or  unconsciously  employed,  can  the  Present  and 
the  Future  be  interpreted  or  guessed  at.  For  though  the 
whole  meaning  lies  far  beyond  our  ken;  yet  in  that  com- 
plex Manuscript,  covered  over  with  formless,  inextricably- 
entangled,  unknown  characters,  —  nay,  which  is  a  Palimpsest, 
and  had  once  prophetic  writing,  still  dimly  legible  there,  — 
some  letters,  some  words,  may  be  deciphered;  and,  if  no 
complete  Philosophy,  here  and  there  an  intelligible  precept, 
available  in  practice,  be  gathered :  well  understanding,  in 
the  mean  while,  that  it  is  only  a  little  portion  we  have 
deciphered ;  that  much  still  remains  to  be  interpreted ;  that 
History  is  a  real  Prophetic  Manuscript,  and  can  be  fully 
interpreted  by  no  man. 

But  the  Artist  in  History  may  be  distinguished  from  the 
Artisan  in  History ;  for  here,  as  in  all  other  provinces,  there 
are  Artists  and  Artisans  ;  men  who  labor  mechanically  in  a 
department,  without  eye  for  the  Whole,  not  feeling  that 
there  is  a  Whole;  and  men  who  inform  and  ennoble  the 
humblest  department  with  an  Idea  of  the  Whole,  and  habit- 
ually know  that  only  in  the  Whole  is  the  Partial  to  be  truly 
disc^erned.  The  proceedings  and  the  duties  of  these  two,  in 
reg'ard  to  History,  must  be  altogether  different.  ISTot,  indeed, 
that  each  has  not  a  real  worth,  in  his  several  degree.  The 
simple  husbandman  can  till  his  field,  and,  by  knowledge  he 
has  gained  of  its  soil,  sow  it  with  the  fit  grain,  though  the 
deep  rocks  and  central  fires  are  unknown  to  him :  his  little 
crop  hangs  under  and  over  the  firmament  of  stars,  and  sails 
through  whole  untracked  celestial  spaces,  between  Aries 
and  Libra ;  nevertheless  it  ripens  for  him  in  due  season, 
and  he  gathers  it  safe  into  his  barn.  As  a  husbandman,  he 
is  blameless  in  disregarding  those  higher  wonders ;  but  as  a 


74  Selections  from    Carlyle. 

thinker,  and  faithful  inquirer  into  Nature,  he  were  AVTong. 
So  likewise  is  it  with  the  Historian,  who  examines  some 
special  aspect  of  History  ;  and  from  this  or  that  combina- 
tion of  circumstances,  political,  moral,  economical,  andihe 
issues  it  has  led  to,  infers  that  such  and  such  properties 
belong  to  human  society,  and  that  the  like  circumstances 
will  produce  the  like  issue ;  which  inference,  if  other  trials 
confirm  it,  must  be  held  true  and  practically  valuable.  He 
is  wrong  only,  and  an  artisan,  when  he  fancies  that  these 
properties,  discovered  or  discoverable,  exhaust  the  matter ; 
and  sees  not,  at  every  step,  that  it  is  inexhaustible. 

However,  that  class  of  cause-and-effect  speculators,  with 
whom  no  wonder  woidd  remain  wonderful,  but  all  things 
in  Heaven  and  Earth  must  be  computed  and  ^accounted 
for ; '  and  even  the  Unknown,  the  Infinite  in  man's  Life, 
had  under  the  words  Enthusiasm,  Superstition,  Spirit  of  the 
Age,  and  so  forth,  obtained,  as  it  were,  an  algebraical  sym- 
bol and  given  value,  —  have  now  wellnigh  played  their  part 
in  European  culture;  and  may  be  considered  as,  in  most 
countries,  even  in  England  itself  where  they  linger  the 
latest,  verging  towards  extinction.  He  who  reads  the  ^in- 
scrutable Book  of  Nature  as  if  it  were  a  Merchant's  Ledger, 
is  justly  suspected  of  having  never  seen  that  Book,  but 
only  some  school  Synopsis  thereof ;  from  which,  if  taken  for 
the  real  Book,  more  error  than  insight  is  to  be  derived. 

Doubtless  also,  it  is  with  a  growing  feeling  of  the  infinite 
nature  of  History,  that  in  these  times  the  old  principle, 
division  of  labor,  has  been  so  widely  applied  to  it.  The 
Political  Historian,  once  almost  the  sole  cultivator  of  His- 
tory, has  now  found  various  associates,  who  strive  to  eluci- 
date other  phases  of  human  Life  ;  of  which,  as  hinted  above, 
the  political  conditions  it  is  passed  under  are  but  one,  and, 
though  the  primary,  perhaps  not  the  most  important  of  the 
many  outward  arrangements.  Of  this  Historian  himself, 
moreover,  in  his  own  special  department,  new  and  higher 


On   Hhtory.  75 

things  are  beginningL-iQ^i)e- expected.  From  of  old,  it  was 
too  often  to  be  reproachfully  observed  of  him,  that  he  dwelt 
with  disproportionate  fondness  in  Senate-houses,  in  Battle- 
fields, nay  even  in  Kings'  Antechambers ;  forgetting  that 
far  away  from  such  scenes,  the  mighty  tide  of  Thought  and 
Action  was  still  rolling  on  its  wondrous  course,  in  gloom 
and  brightness :  and  in  its  thousand  remote  valleys,  a  whole 
world  of  Existence,  with  or  without  an  earthly  sun  of  Hap- 
piness to  warm  it,  with  or  without  a  heavenly  sun  of  Holi- 
ness to  purify  and  sanctify  it,  was  blossoming  and  fading, 
whether  the  '■  famous  victory '  were  won  or  lost.  The  time 
seems  coming  when  much  of  this  must  be  amended ;  and  he 
who  sees  no  world  but  that  of  courts  and  camps ;  and  writes 
only  how  soldiers  were  drilled  and  shot,  and  how  this  min- 
isterial conjuror  out-conjured  that  other,  and  then  guided, 
or  at  least  held,  something  which  he  called  the  rudder  of 
Government,  but  which  was  rather  the  spigot  of  Taxation, 
wherewith,  in  place  of  steering,  he  could  tap,  and  the  more 
cunningly  the  nearer  the  lees,  —  will  pass  for  a  more  or 
less  instructive  Gazetteer,  but  will  no  longer  be  called  a 
Historian. 

However,  the  Political  Historian,  were  his  work  per- 
formed with  all  conceivable  perfection,  can  accomplish  but 
a  part,  and  still  leaves  room  for  numerous  fellow-laborers. 
Foremost  among  these  comes  the  Ecclesiastical  Historian ; 
endeavoring,  with  catholic  or  sectarian  view,  to  trace  the 
progress  of  the  Church ;  of  that  portion  of  the  social  estab- 
lishment, which  respects  our  religious  condition;  as  the 
other  portion  does  our  civil,  or  rather,  in  the  long-run,  our 
economical  condition.  Rightly  conducted,  this  department 
were  undoubtedly  the  more  important  of  the  two ;  inasmuch 
as  it  concerns  us  more  to  understand  how  man's  moral  well- 
being  had  been  and  might  be  promoted,  than  to  understand 
in  the  like  sort  his  physical  well-beini; ;  which  latter  is 
ultimately  the  aim  of  all  Political  arrangements.     For  the 


T6  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

physically  happiest  is  simply  the  safest,  the  strongest ;  and, 
in  all  conditions  of  Government,  Power  (whether  of  wealth 
as  in  these  days,  or  of  arms  and  adherents  as  in  old  daysj" 
is  the  only  outward  emblem  and  purchase-money  of  Good. 
True  Good,  however,  unless  we  reckon  Pleasure  synonymous 
with  it,  is  said  to  be  rarely,  or  rather  never,  offered  for  sale 
in  the  market  where  that  coin  passes  current.  So  that,  for 
man's  true  advantage,  not  the  outward  condition  of  his  life, 
but  the  inward  and  spiritual,  is  of  prime  influence ;  not  the 
form  of  Government  he  lives  under,  and  the  power  he  can 
accumulate  there,  but  the  Church  he  is  a  member  of,  and 
the  degree  of  moral  elevation  he  can  acquire  by  means  of 
its  instruction.  Church  History,  then,  did  it  speak  wisely, 
would  have  momentous  secrets  to  teach  us :  nay,  in  its 
highest  degree,  it  were  a  sort  of  continued  Holy  Writ ;  our 
Sacred  Books  being,  indeed,  only  a  History  of  the  primeval 
Church,  as  it  first  arose  in  man's  soul,  and  symbolically 
embodied  itself  in  his  external  life.  How  far  our  actual 
Church  Historians  fall  below  such  unattainable  standards, 
nay,  below  quite  attainable  approximations  thereto,  we  need 
not  point  out.  Of  the  Ecclesiastical  Historian  we  have  to 
complain,  as  we  did  of  his  Political  fellow-craftsman,  that 
his  inquiries  turn  rather  on  the  outward  mechanism,  the 
mere  hulls  and  superficial  accidents  of  the  object,  than  on 
the  object  itself  :  as  if  the  Church  lay  in  Bishops'  Chapter- 
houses, and  Ecumenic  Council-halls,  and  Cardinals'  Con- 
claves, and  not  far  more  in  the  hearts  of  Believing  Men ; 
in  whose  walk  and  conversation,  as  influenced  thereby,  its 
chief  manifestations  were  to  be  looked  for,  and  its  progress 
or  decline  ascertained.  The  History  of  the  Church  is  a 
History  of  the  Invisible  as  well  as  of  the  Visible  Church ; 
which  latter,  if  disjoined  from  the  former,  is  but  a  vacant 
edifice ;  gilded,  it  may  be,  and  overhung  with  old  votive 
gifts,  yet  useless,  nay,  pestilentially  unclean ;  to  write  whose 
history  is  less  important  than  to  forward  its  downfall. 


On   History.  11 

Of  a  less  ambitious  character  are  tlie  Histories  that  relate 
to  special  separate  provinces  of  human  Action ;  to  Sciences, 
--^racti'cal  Arts,  Institutions,  and  the  like ;  matters  which  do 
nonmpTy  an  epitome  of  man's  ^vhole  interest  and  form  of 
life ;  but  wherein,  though  each  is  still  connected  with  all, 
the  spirit  of  each,  at  least  its  material  results,  may  be  in 
some  degree  evolved  without  so  strict  a  reference  to  that 
of  the  others.  Highest  in  dignity  and  difficulty,  under  this 
head,  would-be  our  histories  of  Philosophy,  of  man's  opin- 
ions^and  theories  respecting  the  nature  of  his  Being,  and 
relations  to  the  Universe  Visible  and  Invisible :  Avhich  His- 
tory, indeed,  were  it  fitly  treated,  or  fit  for  right  treatment, 
would  be  a  province  of  Church  History  ;  the  logical  or  dog- 
matical province  thereof ;  for  Philosophy,  in  its  true  sense, 
is  or  should  be  the  soul,  of  which  Keligion,  Worship,  is  the 
bocl}^ 7  ill  the  healthy  state  of  things  the  Philosopher  and 
Priest  were  one  and  the  same.  But  Philosophy  itself  is  far 
enough  from  wearing  this  character ;  neither  have  its  His- 
torians been  men,  generally  speaking,  that  could  in  the 
smallest  degree  approximate  it  thereto.  Scarcely  since  the 
rude  era  of  the  Magi  and  Druids  has  that  same  healthy 
identification  of  Priest  and  Philosopher  had  place  in  any 
country :  but  rather  the  worship  of  divine  things,  and  the 
scientific  investigation  of  divine  things,  have  been  in  quite 
different  hands :  their  relations  not  friendly,  but  hostile. 
Neither  have  the  Bruckers  and  Buhles,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  many  unhappy  Enfields  who  have  treated  of  that  latter 
department,  been  more  than  barren  reporters,  often  unintel- 
ligent and  unintelligible  reporters,  of  the  doctrine  uttered ; 
without  force  to  discover  how  the  doctrine  originated,  or 
what  reference  it  bore  to  its  time  and  country,  to  the  spirit- 
ual position  of  mankind  there  and  then.  Xay,  such  a  task 
did  not  perhaps  lie  before  them,  as  a  thing  to  be  attempted. 

Art  also  and  Literature  are  intimately  blended  with  Reli- 
outworks  and   abutments,  by  which  that 


78  SeIecfio7is  from   Oarlyle. 

highest  pinnacle  in  our  inward  world  gradually  connects 
itself  with  the  general  level,  and  becomes  accessible  there- 
from. He  who  should  write  a  proper  History  of  Poetry, 
would  depict  for  us  the  successive  Eevelations  which  man 
had  obtained  of  the  Spirit  of  Nature ;  under  what  aspects 
he  had  caught  and  endeavored  to  body  forth  some  glimpse^ 
of  that  unspeakable  Beauty,  which  in  its  highest  clearness 
is  Religion,  is  the  inspiration  of  a  Prophet,  yet  in  one  or 
the  other  degree  must  inspire  every  true  Singer,  Avere  his 
theme  never  so  humble.  We  should  see  by  what  steps  men 
had  ascended  to  the  Temple ;  how  near  they  had  approached; 
by  what  ill  hap  they  had,  for  long  periods,  turned  a^vay 
from  it,  and  groveled  on  the  plain  with  no  music  in  the  air, 
or  blindly  struggled  towards  other  heights.  That  among 
all  our  Eichhorns  and  Wartons  there  is  no  such  Historian, 
must  be  too  clear  to  every  one.  Nevertheless,  let  us  not 
despair  of  far  nearer  approaches  to  that  excellence.  Above 
all,  let  us  keep  the  Ideal  of  it  ever  in  our  eye ;  for  thereby 
alone  have  we  even  a  chance  to  reach  it. 

Our  histories  of  Laws  and  Constitutions,  wherein  many  a 
Montesquieu  and  Hallam  has  labored  with  acceptance,  are 
of  a  much  simpler  nature ;  yet  deep  enough  if  thoroughly 
investigated;  and  useful,  when  authentic,  even  with  little 
depth.  Then  we  have  Histories  of  Medicine,  of  Mathema- 
tics, of  Astronomy,  Commerce,  Chivalry,  Monkery ;  and 
Goguets  and  Beckmanns  have  come  forward  with  what 
might  be  the  most  bountiful  contribution  of  all,  a  History 
of  Inventions.  Of  all  which  sorts,  and  many  more  not  here 
enumerated,  not  yet  devised  and  put  in  practice,  the  merit 
and  the  proper  scheme  may,  in  our  present  limits,  require 
no  exposition. 

In  this  manner,  though,  as  above  remarked,  all  Action  is 
extended  three  Avays,  and  the  general  sum  of  human  Action 
is  a  whole  Universe,  with  all  limits  of  it  unknown,  does 
History   strive  by  running   path    after    path,  througli    the 


On   History.  79 

Jmpassable,  iii  manifold  directions  and  intersections,  to 
secure  for  us  some  oversight  of  the  Whole;  in  Avhich 
endeavor^  if  each  Historian  look  well  around  him  from  his 
path,  tracking  it  out  Avith  the  eye,— not,  as  is  more  com- 
mon, with  the  nose,  —  she  may  at  last  prove  not  altogether 
unsuccessful.  Praying  only  that  increased  division  of 
labor  do  not  here,  as  elsewhere,  aggravate  our  already 
strong  Mechanical  tendencies ;  so  that  in  the  manual  dex- 
terity ior  parts  we  lose  all  command  over  the  whole,  and 
the  hope  of  any  Philosophy  of  History  be  farther  off  than 
ever,  —  let  us  all  wish  her  great  and  greater  sxiccess. 


BOSWELL'S   LIFE   OF  JOHNSON. 

[Fraser's  diagazine,  iYo.  2S.     1832.'] 

Ji^sop's  Fly,  sitting  on  the  axle  of  the  chariot,  has  been 
much  laughed  at  for  exclaiming :  '  What  a  dust  I  do  raise ! ' 
Yet  which  of  us,  in  his  way,  has  not  sometimes  been  guilty 
of  the  like  ?  Nay,  so  foolish  are  men,  they  often,  stand- 
ing at  ease  and  as  sx^ectators  on  the  highway,  will  volun- 
teer to  exclaim  of  the  Fly  (not  being  tempted  to  it,  as  he 
was)  exactly  to  the  same  purport :  '  What  a  dust  thou  dost 
raise ! '  Smallest  of  mortals,  when  mounted  aloft  by  cir- 
cumstances, come  to  seem  great;  smallest  of  phenomena 
connected  with  them  are  treated  as  important,  and  must  be 
sedulously  scanned,  and  commented  upon  with  loud  emphasis. 

That  Mr.  Croker  should  undertake  to  edit  BosivelVs  Life 
of  Johnson,  was  a  praiseworthy  but  no  miraculous  procedure : 
neither  could  the  accomplishment  of  such  undertaking  be, 
in  an  e^^och  like  ours,  anywise  regarded  as  an  event  in 
Universal  History ;  the  right  or  the  wrong  accomplishment 
thereof  was,  in  very  truth,  one  of  the  most  insignificant 
of  things.  However,  it  sat  in  a  great  environment,  on  the 
axle  of  a  high,  fast-rolling,  parliamentary  chariot ;  and  all 
the  world  has  exclaimed  over  it,  and  the  author  of  it: 
'  What  a  dust  thou  dost  raise ! '  List  to  the  Keviews,  and 
Organs  of  Public  Opinion,  from  the  Natioyial  Omnibus 
upwards :  criticisms,  vituperative  and  laudatory,  stream 
from  their  thousand  throats  of  brass  and  of  leather ;  here 
chanting   lo-jxeans;  there  grating  harsh   thunder  or  vehe- 


BoswelVs    Life    of  Johnson.  81 

ment  shrewmouse  squeaklets ;  till  the  general  ear  is  filled, 
and  nigh,  deafened.  Boswell's  Book  had  a  noiseless  birth, 
compared  with  this  Edition  of  Boswell's  Book.  On  the 
other  hand,  consider  with  what  degree  of  tumult  Paradise 
Lost  and  the  Iliad  were  ushered  in ! 

To  swell  such  clamor,  or  prolong  it  beyond  the  time, 
seems  nowise  our  vocation  here.  At  most,  perhaps,  we 
are  bound  to  inform  simple  readers,  with  all  possible 
brevity,  what  manner  of  performance  and  Edition  this 
is  ;  especially,  whether,  in  our  poor  judgment,  it  is  worth 
laying  out  three  pounds  sterling  upon,  yea  or  not.  The 
whole  business  belongs  distinctly  to  the  lower  ranks  of 
the  trivial  class. 

Let  us  admit,  then,  with  great  readiness,  that  as  John- 
son once  said,  and  the  Editor  repeats,  'all  works  which 
describe  manners  require  notes  in  sixty  or  seventy  years, 
or  less ; '  that,  accordingly,  a  new  Edition  of  Boswell  was 
desirable;  and  that  Mr.  Croker  has  given  one.  Eor  this 
task  he  had  various  qualifications  :  his  own  voluntary  resolu- 
tion to  do  it ;  his  high  place  in  society,  unlocking  all  manner 
of  archives  to  him ;  not  less,  perhaps,  a  certain  anecdotico- 
biographic  turn  of  mind,  natural  or  acquired ;  we  mean,  a 
love  for  the  minuter  events  of  History,  and  talent  for 
investigating  these.  Let  us  admit  too,  that  he  has  been 
very  diligent ;  seems  to  have  made  inquiries  perseveringly 
far  and  near ;  as  well  as  drawn  freely  from  his  own  ample 
stores ;  and  so  tells  us,  to  appearance  quite  accurately, 
much  that  he  has  not  found  lying  on  the  highways,  but 
has  had  to  seek  and  dig  for.  Numerous  persons,  chiefly 
of  quality,  rise  to  view  in  these  ISTotes  ;  when,  and  also 
where,  they  came  into  this  world,  received  office  or  pro- 
motion, died  and  were  buried  (only  what  they  did,  except 
digest,  remaining  often  too  mysterious),  —  is  faithfully 
enough  set  down.  Whereby  all  that  their  various  and 
doubtless  widelv-scattered  Tombstones   could   have  taught 


82  Selections  from   Carh/Ie. 

us,  is  here  presented,  at  once,  in  a  bound  Book.  Thus  is 
an  indubitable  conquest,  though  a  small  one,  gained  over 
our  great  enemy,  the  all-destroyer  Time;  and  as  such 
shall  have  welcome. 

Nay,  let  us  say  that  the  spirit  of  Diligence,  exhibited 
in  this  department,  seems  to  attend  the  Editor  honestly 
throughout :  he  keeps  everywhere  a  watchful  outlook  on 
his  Text;  reconciling  the  distant  with  the  present,  or  at 
least  indicating  and  regretting  their  irreconcilability ;  elu- 
cidating, smoothing  down ;  in  all  ways  exercising,  accord- 
ing to  ability,  a  strict  editorial  superintendency.  Any 
little  Latin  or  even  Greek  phrase  is  rendered  into  English, 
in  general  with  perfect  accuracy;  citations  are  verified, 
or  else  corrected.  On  all  hands,  moreover,  there  is  a  cer- 
tain spirit  of  Decency  maintained  and  insisted  on :  if  not 
good  morals,  yet  good  manners,  are  rigidly  inculcated ; 
if  not  Keligion,  and  a  devout  Christian  heart,  yet  Ortho- 
doxy, and  a  cleanly  Shovel-hatted  look,  —  which,  as  com- 
pared with  flat  Nothing,  is  something  very  considerable. 
Grant  too,  as  no  contemptible  triumph  of  this  latter  spirit, 
that  though  the  Editor  is  known  as  a  decided  Politician 
and  Party-man,  he  has  carefully  subdued  all  temptations 
to  transgress  in  that  way :  except  by  quite  involuntary 
indications,  and  rather  as  it  were  the  pervading  temper 
of  the  whole,  you  could  not  discover  on  which  side  of  the 
Political  Warfare  he  is  enlisted  and  fights.  This,  as  we 
said,  is  a  great  triumph  of  the  Decency-principle :  for  this, 
and  for  these  other  graces  and  performances,  let  the  Editor 
have  all  praise. 

Herewith,  however,  must  the  praise  unfortunately  termin- 
ate. Diligence,  Fidelity,  Decency,  are  good  and  indispensa- 
ble :  yet,  without  Faculty,  without  Light,  they  will  not  do 
the  work.  Along  with  that  Tombstone-information,  perhaps 
even  without  much  of  it,  we  could  have  liked  to  gain  some 
answer,  in  one  way  or  other,  to  this  wide  question :  '  What 


BoswelVs   Life    of  Johnson.  83 

and  how  was  English  Life  in  Johnson's  time ;  wherein  has 
ours  grown  to  differ  therefrom  ?  '  In  other  words :  '  What 
things  have  we  to  forget,  what  to  fancy  and  remember, 
before  we,  from  such  distance,  can  put  ourselves  in  John- 
son's 'place ;  and  so,  in  the  full  sense  of  the  term,  understand 
him,  his  sayings,  and  his  doings  ? '  This  was  indeed  spe- 
cially the  problem  which  a  Commentator  and  Editor  had  to 
solve :  a  complete  solution  of  it  should  have  lain  in  him,  his 
whole  mind  should  have  been  filled  and  prepared  with  per- 
fect insight  into  it;  then,  whether  in  the  way  of  express 
Dissertation,  of  incidental  Exposition  and  Indication,  op- 
portunities enough  would  have  occurred  of  bringing  out  the 
same :  what  was  dark  in  the  figure  of  the  Past  had  thereby 
been  enlightened ;  Boswell  had,  not  in  show  and  word  only, 
but  in  very  fact,  been  made  new  again,  readable  to  us  who 
are  divided  from  him,  even  as  he  was  to  those  close  at 
hand.  Of  all  which  very  little  has  been  attempted  here; 
accomplished,  we  should  say,  next  to  nothing,  or  altogether 
nothing. 

Excuse,  no  doubt,  is  in  readiness  for  such  omission ;  and, 
indeed,  for  innumerable  other  failings ;  —  as  where,  for  ex- 
ample, the  Editor  will  punctually  explain  what  is  already 
sun-clear;  and  then  anon,  not  without  frankness,  declare 
frequently  enough  that  'the  Editor  does  not  understand,' 
that  'the  Editor  cannot  guess,'  —  while,  for  most  part,  the 
Reader  cannot  help  both  guessing  and  seeing.  Thus,  if 
Johnson  say,  in  one  sentence,  that  'English  names  should 
not  be  used  in  Latin  verses ; '  and  then,  in  the  next  sen- 
tence, speak  blamingly  of  '  Carteret  being  used  as  a  dactyl,' 
will  the  generality  of  mortals  detect  any  puzzle  there  ?  Or 
again,  where  poor  Boswell  Avrites :  '  I  always  remember  a 
remark  made  to  me  by  a  Turkish  lady,  educated  in  France : 
"Mafoi,  monsieur,  notre  bonheur  depend  de  lafagon  que  notre 
sang  circule;  "  '  —  though  the  Turkish  lady  here  speaks  Eng- 
lish-French, where  is  the  call  for  a  ^STote  like  this :   '  Mr.  Bos- 


84  Selectio7is  from    Carlyle. 

well  no  doubt  fancied  these  words  had  some  meaning,  or  he 
would  hardly  have  quoted  them :  but  what  that  meaning  is, 
the  Editor  cannot  guess  '  ?  The  Editor  is  clearly  no  witch 
at  a  riddle. — For  these  and  all  kindred  deficiencies  the 
excuse,  as  we  said,  is  at  hand;  but  the  fact  of  their  exist- 
ence is  not  the  less  certain  and  regrettable. 

Indeed  it,  from  a  very  early  stage  of  the  business,  becomes 
afflictively  apparent,  how  much  the  Editor,  so  well  furnished 
with  all  external  appliances  and  means,  is  from  within  un- 
furnished with  means  for  forming  to  himself  any  just  notion 
of  Johnson,  or  of  Johnson's  Life  ;  and  therefore  of  speaking 
on  that  subject  with  much  hope  of  edifying.  Too  lightly  is 
it  from  the  first  taken  for  granted  that  Hunger,  the  great 
basis  of  our  life,  is  also  its  apex  and  ultimate  perfection ; 
that  as  '  Neediness  and  Greediness  and  Vainglory '  are  the 
chief  qualities  of  most  men,  so  no  man,  not  even  a  Johnson, 
acts  or  can  think  of  acting  on  any  other  principle.  Whatso- 
ever, therefore,  cannot  be  referred  to  the  two  former  catego- 
ries (jSTeed  and  Greed),  is  without  scruple  ranged  under  the 
latter.  It  is  here  properly  that  our  Editor  becomes  burden- 
some ;  and,  to  the  weaker  sort,  even  a  nuisance.  '^  What 
good  is  it,"  will  such  cry,  "when  we  had  still  some  faint 
shadow  of  belief  that  man  was  better  than  a  selfish  Digest- 
ing-machine,  what  good  is  it  to  poke-in,  at  every  turn,  and 
explain  how  this  and  that  which  we  thought  noble  in  old 
Samuel,  was  vulgar,  base;  that  for  him  too  there  was  no 
reality  but  in  the  Stomach ;  and  except  Pudding,  and  the 
finer  species  of  pudding  which  is  named  Praise,  life  had  no 
pabulum  ?  Why,  for  instance,  when  we  know  that  Johnson 
loved  his  good  Wife,  and  says  expressly  that  their  marriage 
was  '  a  love-match  on  both  sides,'  —  should  two  closed  li^DS 
open  to  tell  us  only  this :  '  Is  it  not  possible  that  the  obvi- 
ous advantage  of  having  a  woman  of  experience  to  superin- 
tend an  establishment  of  this  kind  (the  Edial  School)  may 
have  contributed  to  a  match  so  disproportionate  in  point  of 


BoswelVs   Life    of  Johnson.  85 

age  ?  —  Ed.'  ?  Or  again  when,  in  tlie  Text,  the  honest  cynic 
speaks  freely  of  his  former  poverty,  and  it  is  known  that  he 
once  lived  on  fourpence-half penny  a-day,  —  need  a  Commen- 
tator advance,  and  comment  thus :  •  When  we  find  Dr.  John- 
son tell  unpleasant  truths  to,  or  of,  other  men,  let  us  recollect 
that  he  does  not  appear  to  have  spared  himself,  on  occasions 
in  which  he  might  be  forgiven  for  doing  so '  ?  Why,  in 
short,"  continues  the  exasperated  Eeader,  '-'should  Xotes 
of  this  species  stand  affronting  me,  when  there  might  have 
been  no  ^ote  at  all  ?  "  —  Gentle  Eeader,  we  answer,  Be  not 
wroth.  AA^iat  other  could  an  honest  Commentator  do,  than 
give  thee  the  best  he  had  ?  Such  was  the  picture  and  theo- 
rem he  had  fashioned  for  himself  of  the  world  and  of  man's 
doings  therein:  take  it,  and  draw  wise  inferences  from  it. 
If  there  did  exist  a  Leader  of  Public  Opinion,  and  Cham- 
pion of  Orthodoxy  in  the  Church  of  Jesus  of  Xazareth,  who 
reckoned  that  man's  glory  consisted  in  not  being  poor ;  and 
that  a  Sage,  and  Prophet  of  his  time,  must  needs  blush  be- 
cause the  world  had  paid  him  at  that  easy  rate  of  fourpence- 
half  penny  per  diem,  —  was  not  the  fact  of  such  existence 
worth  knowing,  worth  considering  ? 

Of  a  much  milder  hue,  yet  to  us  practically  of  an  all- 
defacing,  and  for  the  present  enterprise  quite  ruinous  char- 
acter, —  is  another  grand  fundamental  failing;  the  last  we 
shall  feel  ourselves  obliged  to  take  the  pain  of  specifying 
here.  It  is,  that  our  Editor  has  fatally,  and  almost  sur- 
prisingly, mistaken  the  limits  of  an  Editor's  function;  and 
so,  instead  of  working  on  the  margin  with  his  Pen,  to 
elucidate  as  best  might  be,  strikes  boldly  into  the  body  of 
the  page  with  his  Scissors,  and  there  clips  at  discretion! 
Four  Books  Mr.  C.  had  by  him,  wherefrom  to  gather  light 
for  the  fifth,  which  Avas  Bos  well's.  What  does  he  do  but 
now,  in  the  placidest  manner,  —  slit  the  whole  five  into 
slips,  and  sew  these  together  into  a  sextiim  quid,  exactly 
at  his  own  convenience;  giving  Boswell  the  credit  of  the 


86  Selections  from   Carlyle.^ 

whole !  By  what  art-magic,  our  readers  ask,  has  he  united 
them?  By  the  simplest  of  all:  by  Brackets.  Never  before 
was  the  full  virtue  of  the  Bracket  made  manifest.  You 
begin  a  sentence  under  Boswell's  guidance,  thinking  to  be 
carried  happily  through  it  by  the  same:  but  no;  in  the 
middle,  perhaps  after  your  semicolon,  and  some  consequent 
'for,'  —  starts  up  one  of  these  Bracket-ligatures,  and 
stitches  you  in  from  half  a  page  to  twenty  or  thirty  pages 
of  a  Hawkins,  Tyers,  Murphy,  Piozzi;  so  that  often  one 
must  make  the  old  sad  reflection,  'Where  we  are,  we  know; 
whither  we  are  going,  no  man  knoweth!  '  It  is  truly  said 
also,  'There  is  much  between  the  cup  and  the  lip; '  but 
here  the  case  is  still  sadder :  for  not  till  after  consideration 
can  you  ascertain,  now  when  the  cup  is  at  the  lip,  what 
liquor  it  is  you  are  imbibing;  whether  Boswell's  French 
wine  which  you  began  with,  or  some  Piozzi's  ginger-beer, 
or  Hawkins's  entire,  or  perhaps  some  other  great  Brewer's 
penny-swipes  or  even  alegar,  which  has  been  surreptitiously 
substituted  instead  thereof.  A  situation  almost  original; 
not  to  be  tried  a  second  time!  But,  in  fine,  what  ideas 
Mr.  Croker  entertains  of  a  literary  ivliole,  and  the  thing 
called  Book;  and  how  the  very  Printer's  Devils  did  not 
rise  in  mutiny  against  such  a  conglomeration  as  this,  and 
refuse  to  print  it,  —  may  remain  a  problem. 

And  now  happily  our  say  is  said.  All  faults,  the  Moral- 
ists tell  us,  are  properly  shortcomings ;  crimes  themselves 
are  nothing  other  than  a  not  doiyig  enough;  2^.  fighting,  but 
with  defective  vigor.  How  much  more  a  mere  insuffi- 
ciency, and  this  after  good  efforts,  in  handicraft  practice ! 
Mr.  Croker  says:  'The  worst  that  can  happen  is  that  all 
the  present  Editor  has  contributed  may,  if  the  reader  so 
pleases,  be  rejected  as  surplusage.'  It  is  our  pleasant  duty 
to  take  with  liearty  welcome  what  he  has  given;  and  ren- 
der thanks  even  for  what  he  meant  to  give.  Next  and 
finally,  it  is  our  painful  duty  to  declare,  aloud  if  that  be 


BosweU's  Life  of  Johnson.  87 

necessary,  that  his  gift,  as  weighed  against  the  hard  money 
which  the  Booksellers  demand  for  giving  it  you,  is  (in  our 
judgment)  very  greatly  the  lighter.  Xo  portion,  accord- 
ingly, of  our  small  floating  capital  has  been  embarked 
in  the  business,  or  shall  ever  be  ;  indeed,  were  we  in  the 
market  for  such  a  thing,  there  is  simply  no  Edition  of 
Boswell  to  which  this  last  would  seem  preferable.  And 
now  enough,  and  more  than  enough! 

We  have  next  a  word  to  say  of  James  Boswell.  Boswell 
has  already  been  much  commented  upon ;  but  rather  in  the 
way  of  censure  and  vituperation  than  of  true  recognition. 
He  was  a  man  that  brought  himself  much  before  the  world; 
confessed  that  he  eagerly  coveted  fame,  or,  if  that  were  not 
possible,  notoriety:  of  which  latter  as  he  gained  far  more 
than  seemed  his  due,  the  public  were  incited,  not  only  by 
their  natural  love  of  scandal,  but  by  a  special  ground  of 
envy,  to  say  whatever  ill  of  him  could  be  said.  Out  of  the 
fifteen  millions  that  then  lived,  and  had  bed  and  board,  in 
the  British  Islands,  this  man  has  provided  us  a  greater 
pleasure  than  any  other  individual  at  whose  cost  we  now 
enjoy  ourselves ;  perhaps  has  done  us  a  greater  service  than 
can  be  specially  attributed  to  more  than  two  or  three :  yet, 
ungrateful  that  we  are,  no  written  or  spoken  eulogy  of 
James  Boswell  anywhere  exists;  his  recompense  in  solid 
pudding  (so  far  as  copyright  went)  was  not  excessive;  and 
as  for  the  empty  praise,  it  has  altogether  been  denied  him. 
Men  are  unwiser  than  children;  they  do  not  know  the  hand 
that  feeds  them. 

Boswell  was  a  person  whose  mean  or  bad  qualities  lay 
open  to  the  general  eye;  visible,  palpable  to  the  dullest. 
His  good  qualities,  again,  belonged  not  to  the  Time  he 
lived  in;  were  far  from  common  then;  indeed,  in  such  a 
degree,  were  almost  unexampled;  not  recognizable  there- 
fore by  every  one;    nay,   apt  even  (so  strange  had   they 


88  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

grown)  to  be  confounded  with  the  very  vices  they  lay  con- 
tiguous to,  and  had  sprung  out  of.  That  he  was  a  wine- 
bibber  and  gross  liver;  gluttonously  fond  of  whatever 
would  yield  him  a  little  solacement,  were  it  only  of  a 
stomachic  character,  is  undeniable  enough.  That  he  was 
vain,  heedless,  a  babbler;  had  much  of  the  sycophant, 
alternating  with  the  braggadocio,  curiously  spiced  too  with 
an  all-pervading  dash  of  the  coxcomb ;  that  he  gloried  much 
when  the  Tailor,  by  a  court-suit,  had  made  a  new  man  of 
him;  that  he  aj)peared  at  the  Shakspeare  Jubilee  with  a 
riband,  imprinted  'Corsica  Boswell,'  round  his  hat;  and 
in  short,  if  you  will,  lived  no  day  of  his  life  without  doing 
and  saying  more  than  one  pretentious  ineptitude :  all  this 
unhappily  is  evident  as  the  sun  at  noon.  The  very  look  of 
Boswell  seems  to  have  signified  so  much.  In  that  cocked 
nose,  cocked  partly  in  triumph  over  his  weaker  fellow- 
creatures,  partly  to  snuff-up  the  smell  of  coming  pleasure, 
and  scent  it  from  afar ;  in  those  bag-cheeks,  hanging  like 
half-filled  wine-skins,  still  able  to  contain  more;  in  that 
coarsely  protruded  shelf -mouth,  that  fat  dewlapped  chin; 
in  all  this,  who  sees  not  sensuality,  pretension,  boisterous 
imbecility  enough;  much  that  could  not  have  been  orna- 
mental in  the  temper  of  a  great  man's  overfed  great  man 
(what  the  Scotch  name  flunky),  though  it  had  been  more 
natural  there?  The  under  part  of  Boswell's  face  is  of  a 
low,  almost  brutish  character. 

Unfortunately,  on  the  other  hand,  what  great  and  genu- 
ine good  lay  in  him  was  nowise  so  self-evident.  That  Bos- 
well was  a  hunter  after  spiritual  Notabilities,  that  he  loved 
such,  and  longed,  and  even  crept  and  crawled,  to  be  near 
them;  that  he  first  (in  old  Touchwood  Auchinleck^s  phrase- 
ology) 'took  on  with  Paoli; '  and  then  being  off  with  'the 
Corsican  landlouper,'  took  on  with  a  schoolmaster,  'ane 
that  keeped  a  schule,  and  ca'd  it  an  academy: '  that  he  did 
all  this,  and  could  not  help  doing  it,  we  account  a  very  sin- 


BostvelVs  Life  of  Johnson.  89 

gnlar  merit.  The  man,  once  for  all,  had  an  'open  sense,' 
an  open  loving  heart,  which  so  few  have :  where  Excellence 
existed,  he  was  compelled  to  acknowledge  it;  was  drawn 
towards  it,  and  (let  the  old  sulphur-brand  of  a  Laird  say 
what  he  liked)  could  not  hut  walk  with  it, —  if  not  as  supe- 
rior, if  not  as  equal,  then  as  inferior  and  lackey ;  better  so 
than  not  at  all.  If  we  reflect  now  that  this  love  of  Excel- 
lence had  not  only  such  an  evil  nature  to  triumph  over; 
but  also  what  an  education  and  social  position  withstood  it 
and  weighed  it  down,  its  innate  strength,  victorious  over 
all  these  things,  may  astonish  us.  Consider  what  an 
inward  impulse  there  must  have  been,  how  many  moun- 
tains of  impediment  hurled  aside,  before  the  Scottish  Laird 
could,  as  humble  servant,  embrace  the  knees  (the  bosom 
was  not  permitted  him)  of  the  English  Dominie!  'Your 
Scottish  Laird,'  says  an  English  naturalist  of  these  days, 
'may  be  defined  as  the  hungriest  and  vainest  of  all  bipeds 
yet  known.'  Boswell  too  was  a  Tory;  of  quite  peculiarly 
feudal,  genealogical,  pragmatical  temper;  had  been  nur- 
tured in  an  atmosphere  of  Heraldry,  at  the  feet  of  a  very 
Gamaliel  in  that  kind;  within  bare  walls,  adorned  only 
with  pedigrees ;  amid  serving-men  in  threadbare  livery :  all 
things  teaching  him,  from  birth  upwards,  to  remember  that 
a  Laird  was  a  Laird.  Perhaps  there  was  a  special  vanity 
in  his  very  blood:  old  Auchinleck  had,  if  not  the  gay, 
tail-spreading,  peacock  vanity  of  his  son,  no  little  of  the 
slow-stalking,  contentious,  hissing  vanity  of  the  gander; 
a  still  more  fatal  species.  Scottish  Advocates  will  yet  tell 
you  how  the  ancient  man,  having  chanced  to  be  the  first 
sheriff  appointed  (after  the  abolition  of  'hereditary  juris- 
diction ')  by  royal  authority,  was  wont,  in  dull-snuffling, 
pompous  tone,  to  preface  many  a  deliverance  from  the 
bench  with  these  words:  "I,  the  first  King's  Sheriff  in 
Scotland,—  " 

And  now  behold  the  worthy  Bozzy,  so  prepossessed  and 


90  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

held  back  by  nature  and  by  art,  fly  nevertheless  like  iron 
to  its  magnet,  whither  his  better  genius  called!  You  may 
surround  the  iron  and  the  magnet  with  what  enclosures  and 
encumbrances  you  please, —  with  wood,  with  rubbish,  with 
brass :  it  matters  not,  the  two  feel  each  other,  they  struggle 
restlessly  towards  each  other,  they  imll  be  together.  The 
iron  may  be  a  Scottish  squirelet,  full  of  gulosity  and  'gig- 
manity ; '  *  the  magnet  an  English  plebeian,  and  moving 
rag-and-dust  mountain,  coarse,  proud,  irascible,  imperious: 
nevertheless,  behold  how  they  embrace,  and  inseparably 
cleave  to  one  another!  It  is  one  of  the  strangest  phenom- 
ena of  the  past  century,  that  at  a  time  when  the  old  rever- 
ent feeling  of  Discipleship  (such  as  brought  men  from  far 
countries,  with  rich  gifts  and  prostrate  soul,  to  the  feet  of 
the  Prophets)  had  passed  utterly  away  from  men's  prac- 
tical experience,  and  was  no  longer  surmised  to  exist  (as 
it  does),  perennial,  indestructible,  in  man's  inmost  heart, 
—  James  Boswell  should  have  been  the  individual,  of  all 
others,  jDredestined  to  recall  it,  in  such  singular  guise,  to 
the  wondering,  and,  for  a  long  while,  laughing  and  unrec- 
ognizing  world.  It  has  been  commonly  said,  'The  man's 
vulgar  vanity  was  all  that  attached  him  to  Johnson;  he 
delighted  to  be  seen  near  him,  to  be  thought  connected 
with  him.'  Now  let  it  be  at  once  granted  that  no  con- 
sideration springing  out  of  vulgar  vanity  could  well  be 
absent  from  the  mind  of  James  Boswell,  in  this  his  inter- 
course with  Johnson,  or  in  any  considerable  transaction  of 
his  life.  At  the  same  time,  ask  yourself:  Whether  such 
vanity,  and  nothing  else,  actuated  him  therein;  whether 
this  was  the  true  essence  and  moving  principle  of  the  phe- 
nomenon, or  not  rather  its  outward  vesture,  and  the  acci- 

*  *  Q.  What  do  you  mean  by  "  respectable  "  ?  —  A.  He  always  kept  a 
gig-.'  (Thurtell's  Trial.) — 'Thus,'  it  has  been  said,  'does  society  natur- 
ally divide  itself  into  four  classes  :  Noblemen,  Gentlemen,  Gigmen,  and 
Men.' 


BosivelVs  Life  of  Johnson.  91 

dental  environment  (and  defacement)  in  which  it  came  to 
light?  The  man  was,  by  nature  and  habit,  vain;  a  syco- 
phant-coxcomb, be  it  granted :  but  had  there  been  nothing 
more  than  vanit}''  in  him,  Avas  Samuel  Johnson  the  man  of 
men  to  whom  he  must  attach  himself?  At  the  date  when 
Johnson  was  a  poor  rusty-coated  'scholar,'  dwelling  in 
Temple-lane,  and  indeed  throughout  their  whole  inter- 
course afterwards,  were  there  not  chancellors  and  prime 
ministers  enough;  graceful  gentlemen,  the  glass  of  fashion; 
honor-giving  noblemen;  dinner-giving  rich  men;  renowned 
fire-eaters,  swordsmen,  gownsmen;  Quacks  and  Eealities 
of  all  hues,  —  any  one  of  whom  bulked  much  larger  in  the 
world's  eye  than  Johnson  ever  did?  To  any  one  of  whom, 
by  half  that  submissiveness  and  assiduity,  our  Bozzy  might 
have  recommended  himself;  and  sat  there,  the  envy  of 
surrounding  lickspittles;  pocketing  now  solid  emolument, 
swallowing  now  well-cooked  viands  and  wines  of  rich 
vintage;  in  each  case,  also,  shone-on  by  some  glittering 
reflex  of  Eenown  or  Notoriety,  so  as  to  be  the  observed 
of  innumerable  observers.  To  no  one  of  whom,  however, 
though  otherwise  a  most  diligent  solicitor  and  purveyor, 
did  he  so  attach  himself:  such  vulgar  courtierships  were 
his  paid  drudgery,  or  leisure  amusement;  the  worship  of 
Johnson  was  his  grand,  ideal,  voluntary  business.  Does 
not  the  frothy-hearted,  yet  enthusiastic  man,  doffing  his 
Advocate 's-wig,  regularly  take  post,  and  hurry  up  to  Lon- 
don, for  the  sake  of  his  Sage  chiefly;  as  to  a  Feast  of  Tab- 
ernacles, the  Sabbath  of  his  whole  year?  The  plate-licker 
and  wine-bibber  dives  into  Bolt  Court,  to  sip  muddy  coffee 
with  a  cynical  old  man,  and  a  sour-tempered  blind  old 
woman  (feeling  the  cups,  whether  they  are  full,  with  her 
finger);  and  patiently  endures  contradictions  without  end; 
too  happy  so  he  may  but  be  allowed  to  listen  and  live. 
Nay,  it  does  not  appear  that  vulgar  vanity  could  ever 
have  been  much  flattered  by  Boswell's  relation  to  Johnson. 


92  Selections  fro7n   Carlyle. 

Mr.  Croker  says,  Johnson  was  to  the  last  little  regarded  by 
the  great  world;  from  which,  for  a  vulgar  vanity,  all  honor, 
as  from  its  fountain,  descends.  Bozzy,  even  among  John- 
son's friends  and  special  admirers,  seems  rather  to  have 
been  laughed  at  than  envied :  his  officious,  whisking,  con- 
sequential ways,  the  daily  reproofs  and  rebuffs  he  under- 
went, could  gain  from  the  world  no  golden,  but  only  leaden 
opinions.  His  devout  Discipleship  seemed  nothing  more 
than  a  mean  Spanielship,  in  the  general  eye.  His  mighty 
'constellation,'  or  sun,  round  whom  he,  as  satellite,  observ- 
antly gyrated,  was,  for  the  mass  of  men,  but  a  huge  ill- 
snuffed  tallow-light,  and  he  a  weak  night-moth,  circling 
foolishly,  dangerously  about  it,  not  knowing  what  he 
wanted.  If  he  enjoyed  Highland  dinners  and  toasts,  as 
henchman  to  a  new  sort  of  chieftain,  Henry  Erskine,  in 
the  domestic  'Outer-House,'  could  hand  him  a  shilling  'for 
the  sight  of  his  Bear.'  Doubtless  the  man  was  laughed  at, 
and  often  heard  himself  laughed  at  for  his  Johnsonism. 
To  be  envied  is  the  grand  and  sole  aim  of  vulgar  vanity ; 
to  be  filled  with  good  things  is  that  of  sensuality :  for  John- 
son perhaps  no  man  living  envied  poor  Bozzy ;  and  of  good 
things  (except  himself  paid  for  them)  there  was  no  vestige 
in  that  acquaintanceship.  Had  nothing  other  or  better 
than  vanity  and  sensuality  been  there,  Johnson  and  Bos- 
well  had  never  come  together,  or  had  soon  and  finally  sepa- 
rated again. 

In  fact,  the  so  copious  terrestrial  dross  that  welters  cha- 
otically, as  the  outer  sphere  of  this  man's  character,  does 
but  render  for  us  more  remarkable,  more  touching,  the 
celestial  spark  of  goodness,  of  light,  and  Eeverence  for 
Wisdom,  which  dwelt  in  the  interior,  and  could  struggle 
through  such  encumbrances,  and  in  some  degree  illuminate 
and  beautify  them.  There  is  much  lying  yet  undeveloped 
in  the  love  of  Boswell  for  Johnson.  A  cheering  proof, 
in  a  time  which  else  utterly  wanted  (and  still  wants)  such, 


BoswelVs  Life  of  Johnsori.  93 

that  living  Wisdom  is  quite  infinitely  precious  to  man,  is 
the  symbol  of  the  Godlike  to  him,  which  even  weak  eyes 
may  discern ;  that  Loyalty,  Discipleship,  all  that  was  ever 
meant  by  Hero-iuorship,  lives  perennially  in  the  human 
bosom,  and  lyaits,  even  in  these  dead  days,  only  for  occa- 
sions to  unfold  it,  and  inspire  all  men  with  it,  and  again 
make  the  world  alive!  James  Boswell  we  can  regard  as  a 
practical  witness,  or  real  martyr,  to  this  high  everlasting 
truth.  A  wonderful  martyr,  if  you  will;  and  in  a  time 
which  made  such  martyrdom  doubly  wonderful:  yet  the 
time  and  its  martyr  perhaps  suited  each  other.  For  a 
decrepit,  death-sick  Era,  when  Caxt  had  first  decisively 
opened  her  poison-breathing  lips  to  proclaim  that  God- 
worship  and  Mammon-worship  were  one  and  the  same, 
that  Life  was  a  Lie,  and  the  Earth  Beelzebub's,  which  the 
Supreme  Quack  should  inherit;  and  so  all  things  were 
fallen  into  the  yellow  leaf,  and  fast  hastening  to  noisome 
corruption:  for  such  an  Era,  perhaps  no  better  Prophet 
than  a  parti-colored  Zany-Prophet,  concealing,  from  him- 
self and  others,  his  prophetic  significance  in  such  unex- 
pected vestures,  —  was  deserved,  or  would  have  been  in 
place.  A  precious  medicine  lay  hidden  in  floods  of  coars- 
est, most  composite  treacle:  the  world  swallowed  the 
treacle,  for  it  suited  the  world's  palate;  and  now,  after 
half  a  century,  may  the  medicine  also  begin  to  show  itself! 
James  Bos  well  belonged,  in  his  corruptible  part,  to  the 
lowest  classes  of  mankind;  a  foolish,  inflated  creature, 
swimming  in  an  element  of  self-conceit:  but  in  his  corrup- 
tible there  dwelt  an  incorruptible,  all  the  more  impressive 
and  indubitable  for  the  strange  lodging  it  had  taken. 

Consider  too,  with  what  force,  diligence,  and  vivacity  he 
has  rendered  back  all  this  which,  in  Johnson's  neighbor- 
hood, his  'open  sense'  had  so  eagerly  and  freely  taken  in. 
That  loose-flowing,  careless-looking  Work  of  his  is  as  a 
picture  by  one  of  Nature's  own  Artists;  the  best  possible 


94  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

resemblance  of  a  Reality ;  like  the  very  image  thereof  in  a 
clear  mirror.  Which  indeed  it  was :  let  but  the  mirror  be 
dear,  this  is  the  great  point;  the  picture  must  and  will  be 
■genuine.  How  the  babbling  Bozzy,  inspired  only  by  love, 
and  the  recognition  and  vision  which  love  can  lend,  epi- 
tomizes nightly  the  words  of  Wisdom,  the  deeds  and 
aspects  of  Wisdom,  and  so,  by  little  and  little,  uncon- 
sciously works  together  for  us  a  whole  Jolinsoniad ;  a  more 
free,  perfect,  sunlit,  and  spirit-speaking  likeness  than  for 
many  centuries  had  been  drawn  by  man  of  man !  Scarcely 
since  the  days  of  Homer  has  the  feat  been  equaled ;  indeed, 
in  many  senses,  this  also  is  a  kind  of  Heroic  Poem.  The 
fit  Odyssey  of  our  unheroic  age  was  to  be  written,  not  sung; 
of  a  Thinker,  not  of  a  Fighter;  and  (for  want  of  a  Homer) 
by  the  first  open  soul  that  might  offer, —  looked  such  even 
through  the  organs  of  a  Boswell.  AVe  do  the  man's  intel- 
lectual endowment  great  wrong,  if  we  measure  it  by  its 
mere  logical  outcome ;  though  here  too,  there  is  not  want- 
ing a  light  ingenuity,  a  figurativeness,  and  fanciful  sport, 
with  glimpses  of  insight  far  deeper  than  the  common.  But 
Boswell's  grand  intellectual  talent  was,  as  such  ever  is,  an 
unconscious  one,  of  far  higher  reach  and  significance  than 
Logic;  and  showed  itself  in  the  whole,  not  in  parts.  Here 
again  we  have  that  old  saying  verified,  'The  heart  sees 
farther  than  the  head.' 

Thus  does  poor  Bozzy  stand  out  to  us  as  an  ill-assorted, 
glaring  mixture  of  the  highest  and  the  lowest.  What, 
indeed,  is  man's  life  generally  but  a  kind  of  beast-godhood; 
the  god  in  us  triumphing  more  and  more  over  the  beast; 
striving  more  and  more  to  subdue  it  under  his  feet?  Did 
not  the  Ancients,  in  their  wise,  perennially-significant 
way,  figure  Nature  itself,  their  sacred  All,  or  Pax,  as  a 
portentous  commingling  of  these  two  discords;  as  musical, 
humane,  oracular  in  its  upper  part,  yet  ending  below  in  the 
cloven  hairy  feet  of  a  goat?      The  union  of  melodious. 


BosicelVs  Life  of  Johnson.  95 

celestial  Freewill  and  Reason  with  foul  Irrationality  and 
Lust;  in  which,  nevertheless,  dwelt  mysterious  unspeak- 
able Fear  and  half -mad  panic  Awe;  as  for  mortals  there 
well  might!  And  is  not  a  man  a  microcosm,  or  epitomized 
mirror  of  that  same  Universe;  or  rather,  is  not  that  Uni- 
verse even  Himself,  the  reflex  of  his  own  fearful  and  won- 
derful being,  'the  waste  fantasy  of  his  own  dream'?  Xo 
wonder  that  man,  that  each  man,  and  James  Boswell  like 
the  others,  should  resemble  it !  The  peculiarity  in  his  case 
was  the  unusual  defect  of  amalgamation  and  subordination : 
the  highest  lay  side  by  side  with  the  lowest;  not  morally 
combined  w^ith  it  and  spiritually  transfiguring  it,  but  tum- 
bling in  half-mechanical  juxtaposition  with  it,  and  from 
time  to  time,  as  the  mad  alternation  chanced,  irradiating 
it,  or  eclipsed  by  it. 

The  world,  as  we  said,  has  been  but  unjust  to  him ;  dis- 
cerning only  the  outer  terrestrial  and  often  sordid  mass; 
without  eye,  as  it  generally  is,  for  his  inner  divine  secret; 
and  thus  figuring  him  nowise  as  a  god  Pan,  but  simply 
of  the  bestial  species,  like  the  cattle  on  a  thousand  hills. 
Nay,  sometimes  a  strange  enough  hypothesis  has  been 
started  of  him;  as  if  it  were  in  virtue  even  of  these  same 
bad  qualities  that  he  did  his  good  Avork ;  as  if  it  were  the 
very  fact  of  his  being  among  the  worst  men  in  this  world 
that  had  enabled  him  to  write  one  of  the  best  books  therein! 
:alser  hypothesis,  we  may  venture  to  say,  never  rose  in 
human  soul.  Bad  is  by  its  nature  negative,  and  can  do 
nothing;  whatsoever  enables  us  to  do  anything  is  by  its 
very  nature  good.  Alas,  that  there  should  be  teachers  in 
Israel,  or  even  learners,  to  whom  this  world-ancient  fact 
is  still  problematical,  or  even  deniable !  Boswell  wrote  a 
good  Book  because  he  had  a  heart  and  an  eye  to  discern 
AVisdom,  and  an  utterance  to  render  it  forth ;  because  of  his 
free  insight,  his  lively  talent,  above  all,  of  his  Love  and 
childlike  Open-mindedness.      His  sneaking  sycophancies, 


96  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

his  greediness  and  forwardness,  Avhatever  was  bestial  and 
earthy  in  him,  are  so  many  blemishes  in  his  Book,  which 
still  disturb  us   in   its   clearness:   wholly  hindrances,  not 
helps.     Towards   Johnson,    however,    his   feeling  was  not 
Sycophancy,  which  is  the  lowest,  but  Reverence,  which  is 
the  highest  of  human  feelings.     None  but  a  reverent  man 
(which  so  unspeakably  few  are)  could  have  found  his  way 
from  Boswell's  environment  to  Johnson's:  if  such  worship 
for  real  God-made  superiors  showed  itself  also  as  worship 
for  apparent  Tailor-made  superiors,  even  as  hollow  inter- 
ested mouth-worship  for  such,— the  case,  in  this  composite 
human  nature  of  ours,  was  not  miraculous,  the  more  was 
the  pity !     But  for  ourselves,  let  every  one  of  us  cling  to 
this  last  article  of  Faith,  and  know  it  as  the  beginning  of 
all  knowledge  worth  the  name:  That  neither  James  Bos- 
well's  good  Book,  nor  any  other  good  thing,  in  any  time  or 
in  any  place,  was,  is,  or  can  be  performed  by  any  man  in 
virtue  of  his  badness,  but  always  and  solely  in  spite  thereof. 
As  for  the  Book  itself,  questionless  the  universal  favor 
entertained  for  it  is  well  merited.     In  worth  as  a  Book  we 
have  rated  it  beyond  any  other  product  of  the  eighteenth 
century:    all   Johnson's   own  Writings,   laborious   and  in 
their  kind  genuine  above  most,  stand  on  a  quite  inferior 
level  to  it;  already,  indeed,  they  are  becoming  obsolete  for 
this  generation;   and  for  some  future  generation  may  be 
valuable  chiefly  as  Prolegomena  and  expository  Scholia  to 
this  Johnsoniad  of  Boswell.     Which  of  us  but  remembers, 
as  one  of  the  sunny  spots  in  his  existence,  the  day  when 
he  opened  these  airy  volumes,   fascinating  him  by  a  true 
natural  magic !     It  was  as  if  the  curtains  of  the  past  were 
drawn  aside,   and  we  looked  mysteriously  into  a  kindred 
country,   where  dwelt  our  Fathers;   inexpressibly  dear  to 
us,  but  which  had  seemed  forever  hidden  from  our  eyes. 
For  the  dead  Night  had  engulfed  it;  all  was  gone,  vanished 
as  if  it  had  not   been.      Nevertheless,   wondrously   given 


BostvelVs  Life  of  Johnson.  97 

back  to  uSj  there  once  more  it  lay;  all  bright,  lucid,  bloom- 
ing-, a  little  island  of  Creation  amid  the  circumambient 
Void.  There  it  still  lies ;  like  a  thing  stationary,  imperish- 
able, over  which  changeful  Time  were  now  accumulating 
itself  in  vain,  and  could  not  any  longer  harm  it,  or  hide  it. 

If  we  examine  by  what  charm  it  is  that  men  are  still 
held  to  this  Life  of  Johnson,  now  when  so  much  else  has 
been  forgotten,  the  main  part  of  the  answer  will  perhaps 
be  found  in  that  speculation  'on  the  import  of  Reality,^ 
communicated  to  the  world,  last  month,  in  this  Magazine. 
The  Johnsoniad  of  Boswell  turns  on  objects  that  in  very 
deed  existed;  it  is  all  true.  So  far  other  in  melodiousness 
of  tone,  it  vies  with  the  Odyssey,  or  surpasses  it,  in  this 
one  point:  to  us  these  read  pages,  as  those  chanted  hexa- 
meters were  to  the  first  Greek  hearers,  are,  in  the  fullest, 
deepest  sense,  wholly  credible.  All  the  wit  and  wisdom 
lying  embalmed  in  Boswell's  Book,  plenteous  as  these  are, 
could  not  have  saved  it.  Far  more  scientific  instruction 
(mere  excitement  and  enlightenment  of  the  thinking  power) 
can  be  found  in  twenty  other  works  of  that  time,  which 
make  but  a  quite  secondary  impression  on  us.  The  other 
works  of  that  time,  however,  fall  under  one  of  two  classes  : 
Either  they  are  professedly  Didactic;  and,  in  that  way, 
mere  Abstractions,  Philosophic  Diagrams,  incapable  of 
interesting  us  much  otherwise  than  SiS  Euclid^ s  Elements 
may  do :  Or  else,  with  all  their  vivacity,  and  pictorial  rich- 
ness of  color,  they  are  Fictions  and  not  Realities.  Deep 
truly,  as  Herr  Sauerteig  urges,  is  the  force  of  this  con- 
sideration: the  thing  here  stated  is  a  fact  ;  those  figures, 
that  local  habitation,  are  not  shadow  but  substance.  In 
virtue  of  such  advantages,  see  how  a  very  Boswell  may 
become  Poetical! 

Critics  insist  much  on  the  Poet  that  he  should  commu- 
nicate an  'Infinitude'  to  his  delineation;  that  by  intensity 
of  conception,    by  that  gift  of  'transcendental  Thought," 


98  Selections  from    Carlyle. 

which  is  fitly  named  genius,  and  inspiration,  he  should 
inform  the  Finite  with  a  certain  Infinitude  of  significance ; 
or  as  they  sometimes  say,  ennoble  the  Actual  into  Ideal- 
ness.  They  are  right  in  their  precept;  they  mean  rightly. 
But  in  cases  like  this  of  the  Johnsoniad,  such  is  the  dark 
grandeur  of  that  'Time  element,'  wherein  man's  soul  here 
below  lives  imprisoned, — the  Poet's  task  is,  as  it  were, 
done  to  his  hand :  Time  itself,  which  is  the  outer  veil  of 
Eternity,  invests,  of  its  own  accord,  with  an  authentic  felt 
'infinitude,'  whatsoever  it  has  once  embraced  in  its  myste- 
rious folds.  Consider  all  that  lies  in  that  one  word  Past! 
What  a  pathetic,  sacred,  in  every  sense  j)oetic,  meaning 
is  implied  in  it;  a  meaning  growing  ever  the  clearer,  the 
farther  we  recede  in  Time,  —  the  more  of  that  same  Past 
we  have  to  look  through!  —  On  which  ground  indeed  must 
Sauerteig  have  built,  and  not  without  plausibility,  in  that 
strange  thesis  of  his:  'That  History,  after  all,  is  the  true 
Poetry;  that  Eeality,  if  rightly  interpreted,  is  grander 
than  Fiction;  nay,  that  even  in  the  right  interpretation  of 
Reality  and  History  does  genuine  Poetry  consist.' 

Thus  for  BoswelVs  Life  of  Johnson  has  Time  done,  is 
Time  still  doing,  what  no  ornament  of  Art  or  Artifice  could 
have  done  for  it.  Rough  Samuel  and  sleek  wheedling 
James  were,  and  are  not.  Their  Life  and  whole  personal 
Environment  has  melted  into  air.  The  Mitre  Tavern  still 
stands  in  Fleet  Street:  but  where  now  is  its  scot-and-lot 
paying,  beef-and-ale  loving,  cocked-hatted,  pot-bellied 
Landlord;  its  rosy -faced,  assiduous  Landlady,  with  all  her 
shining  brass-pans,  waxed  tables,  well-filled  larder-shelves ; 
her  cooks,  and  bootjacks,  and  errand-boys,  and  watery- 
mouthed  hangers-on?  Gone!  Gone!  The  becking  Waiter 
who,  with  Avreathed  smiles,  was  wont  to  spread  for  Samuel 
and  Bozzy  their  supper  of  the  gods,  has  long  since  pocketed 
his  last  sixpence;  and  vanished,  sixpences  and  all,  like  a 
ghost  at  cock-crowing.     The  Bottles  they  drank  out  of  are 


BosiveIVs  Life  of  Johnson,  99 

all  broken,  the  Chairs  they  sat  on  all  rotted  and  burnt; 
the  very  Knives  and  Forks  they  ate  with  have  rusted  to  the 
heart,  and  become  brown  oxide  of  iron,  and  mingled  with  the 
indiscriminate  clay.  All,  all  has  vanished,  in  very  deed  and 
truth;  like  that  baseless  fabric  of  Prospero's  air-vision. 
Of  the  Mitre  Tavern  nothing  but  the  bare  walls  remain 
there:  of  London,  of  England,  of  the  World,  nothing  but 
the  bare  walls  remain;  and  these  also  decaying  (were  they 
of  adamant),  only  slower.  The  mysterious  Kiver  of  Exist- 
ence rushes  on:  a  new  Billow  thereof  has  arrived,  and 
lashes  wildly  as  ever  round  the  old  embankments ;  but  the 
former  Billow  with  its  loud,  mad  eddyings,  where  is  it?  — 
Where!  —  Now  this  Book  of  Bos  well's,  this  is  precisely  a 
revocation  of  the  edict  of  Destiny;  so  that  Time  shall  not 
utterly,  not  so  soon  by  several  centuries,  have  dominion 
over  us.  A  little  row  of  Naphtha-lamps,  with  its  line  of 
Naphtha-light,  burns  clear  and  holy  through  the  dead 
Night  of  the  Past :  they  who  are  gone  are  still  here ;  though 
hidden,  they  are  revealed,  though  dead,  they  yet  speak. 
There  it  shines,  that  little  miraculously  lamplit  Pathway; 
shedding  its  feebler  and  feebler  twilight  into  the  boundless 
dark  Oblivion, —  for  all  that  our  Johnson  touched  has 
become  illuminated  for  us:  on  which  miraculously  little 
Pathway  we  can  still  travel,  and  see  wonders. 

It  is  not  speaking  with  exaggeration,  but  with  strict 
measured  sobriety,  to  say  that  this  Book  of  Bos  well's  will 
give  us  more  real  insight  into  the  History  of  England 
during  those  days  than  twenty  other  Books,  falsely  entitled 
'Histories,'  which  take  to  themselves  that  special  aim. 
What  good  is  it  to  me  though  innumerable  Smolletts  and 
Belshams  keep  dinning  in  my  ears  that  a  man  named 
G-eorge  the  Third  was  born  and  bred  up,  and  a  man  named 
George  the  Second  died;  that  Walpole,  and  the  Pelhams, 
and  Chatham,  and  Rockingham,  and  Shelburne,  and  North, 
with  their  Coalition  or   their   Separation   Ministries,    all 


100  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

ousted  one  another;  and  vehemently  scrambled  for  'the 
thing  they  called  the  Rudder  of  Government,  but  which 
was  in  reality  the  Spigot  of  Taxation'?  That  debates  were 
held,  and  infinite  jarring  and  jargoning  took  place;  and 
road-bills  and  enclosure-bills,  and  game-bills  and  India- 
bills,  and  Laws  which  no  man  can  number,  which  happily 
few  men  needed  to  trouble  their  heads  with  beyond  the 
passing  moment,  were  enacted,  and  printed  by  the  King's 
Stationer?  That  he  who  sat  in  Chancery,  and  rayed-out 
speculation  from  the  Woolsack,  was  now  a  man  that 
squinted,  now  a  man  that  did  not  squint?  —  To  the  hungry 
and  thirsty  mind  all  this  avails  next  to  nothing.  These 
men  and  these  things,  we  indeed  know,  did  swim,  by 
strength  or  by  specific  levity,  as  apples  or  as  horse-dung, 
on  the  top  of  the  current :  but  is  it  by  painfully  noting  the 
courses,  edclyings  and  bobbings  hither  and  thither  of  such 
drift-articles,  that  you  will  unfold  to  me  the  nature  of  the 
current  itself;  of  that  mighty-rolling,  loud-roaring  Life- 
current,  bottomless  as  the  foundations  of  the  Universe, 
mysterious  as  its  Author?  The  thing  I  want  to  see  is  not 
Redbook  Lists,  and  Court  Calendars,  and  Parliamentary 
Registers,  but  the  Life  of  Max  in  England:  what  men 
did,  thought,  suffered,  enjoyed;  the  form,  especially  the 
spirit,  of  their  terrestrial  existence,  its  outward  environ- 
ment, its  inward  principle ;  liow  and  what  it  was ;  whence  it 
proceeded,  whither  it  was  tending. 

Mournful,  in  truth,  is  it  to  behold  what  the  business 
called  'History,'  in  these  so  enlightened  and  illuminated 
times,  still  continues  to  be.  Can  you  gather  from  it,  read 
till  your  eyes  go  out,  any  dimmest  shadow  of  an  answer  to 
that  great  question:  How  men  lived  and  had  their  being; 
were  it  but  economically,  as,  what  wages  they  got,  and 
what  they  bought  with  these?  Unhappily  you  cannot. 
History  will  throw  no  light  on  any  such  matter.  At  the 
point  where  living  memory  fails,    it  is  all  darkness;  Mr. 


BoswelVs  Life  of  Johnson.  '101 

Senior  and  Mr.  Sadler  must  still  debate' tiiis  simplest!  of -ail 
elements  in  the  condition  of  the  Past :  Whether  men  were 
better  off,  in  their  mere  larders  and  pantries,  or  were  worse 
off  than  now!  History,  as  it  stands  all  bound  up  in  gilt 
volumes,  is  but  a  shade  more  instructive  than  the  wooden 
volumes  of  a  Backgammon-board.  How  my  Prime  IMinister 
was  appointed  is  of  less  moment  to  me  than  How  my  House 
Servant  was  hired.  In  these  days,  ten  ordinary  Histories 
of  Kiiigs  and  Courtiers  were  well  exchanged  against  the 
tenth  part  of  one  good  History  of  Booksellers. 

Por  example,  I  would  fain  know  the  History  of  Scotland : 
who  can  tell  it  me?  ^Eobertson,'  say  innumerable  voices; 
'Robertson  against  the  world.'  I  open  Robertson;  and  find 
there,  through  long  ages  too  confused  for  narrative,  and  fit 
only  to  be  presented  in  the  way  of  epitome  and  distilled 
essence,  a  cunning  answer  and  hypothesis,  not  to  this  ques- 
tion: 'By  whom,  and  by  what  means,  when  and  how,  was 
this  fair  broad  Scotland,  with  its  Arts  and  Manufactures, 
Temples,  Schools,  Institutions,  Poetry,  Spirit,  National 
Character,  created,  and  made  arable,  verdant,  peculiar, 
great,  here  as  I  can  see  some  fair  section  of  it  lying,  kind 
and  strong  (like  some  Bacchus-tamed  Lion),  from  the  Castle- 
hill  of  Edinburgh  ?  '  —  but  to  this  other  question :  'How  did 
the  King  keep  himself  alive  in  those  old  days;  and  re.strain 
so  many  Butcher-Barons  and  ravenous  Henchmen  from 
utterly  extirpating  one  another,  so  that  killing  Avent  on  in 
some  sort  of  moderation  ? '  In  the  one  little  Letter  of 
^neas  Sylvius,  from  old  Scotland,  there  is  more  of  His- 
tory than  in  all  this. —  At  length,  however,  we  come  to  a 
luminous  age,  interesting  enough;  to  the  age  of  the  Refor- 
mation. All  Scotland  is  awakened  to  a  second  higher  life: 
the  Spirit  of  the  Highest  stirs  in  every  bosom,  agitates 
every  bosom;  Scotland  is  convulsed,  fermenting,  struggling 
to  body  itself  forth  anew.  To  the  herdsman,  among  his 
cattle  in  remote  woods;    to  the  craftsman,    in  his   rude. 


102'    ''        '   '     'iSel'ec'tioiis>  from   Carlyle. 

iietitTi-iliatclied  workshop,  among  liis  rude  guild-brethren; 
to  the  great  and  to  the  little,  a  new  light  has  arisen :  in 
town  and  hamlet  groups  are  gathered,  with  eloquent  looks, 
and  governed  or  ungovernable  tongues ;  the  great  and  the 
little  go  forth  together  to  do  battle  for  the  Lord  against  the 
mighty.  We  ask,  with  breathless  eagerness:  'How was  it; 
how  went  it  on?  Let  us  understand  it,  let  us  see  it,  and 
know  it !  '  —  In  reply,  is  handed  us  a  really  graceful  and 
most  dainty  little  Scandalous  Chronicle  (as  for  some  Jour- 
nal of  Fashion)  of  two  persons :  Mary  Stuart,  a  Beauty, 
but  over  light-headed;  and  Henry  Darnley,  a  Booby  who 
had  fine  legs.  How  these  first  courted,  billed  and  cooed, 
according  to  nature;  then  pouted,  fretted,  grew  utterly 
enraged,  and  blew  one  another  up  with  gunpowder :  this, 
and  not  the  History  of  Scotland,  is  what  we  good-naturedly 
read.  Nay,  by  other  hands,  something  like  a  horse-load 
of  other  Books  have  been  written  to  prove  that  it  was  the 
Beauty  who  blew  up  the  Booby,  and  that  it  was  not  she. 
Who  or  what  it  was,  the  thing  once  for  all  being  so  effec- 
tually done,  concerns  us  little.  To  know  Scotland,  at  that 
great  epoch,  were  a  valuable  increase  of  knowledge:  to 
know  poor  Darnley,  and  see  him  with  burning  candle,  from 
centre  to  skin,  were  no  increase  of  knowledge  at  all. — 
Thus  is  History  written. 

Hence,  indeed,  comes  it  that  History,  which  should  be  'the 
essence  of  innumerable  Biographies,'  Avill  tell  us,  question  it 
as  we  like,  less  than  one  genuine  Biography  may  do,  plea- 
santly and  of  its  own  accord!  The  time  is  approaching 
when  History  will  be  attempted  on  quite  other  principles ; 
when  the  Court,  the  Senate,  and  the  Battlefield,  receding 
more  and  more  into  the  background,  the  Temple,  the  Work- 
shop, and  Social  Hearth  will  advance  more  and  more  into  the 
foreground ;  and  History  will  not  content  itself  with  shap- 
ing some  answer  to  that  question:  'How  were  men  taxed 
and  hept  quiet  then?'  but  will  seek  to  answer  this  other 


BosivelVs   Life    of  Johnson.  .  103 

infinitely  wider  and  higher  question :  '  How  and  what  were 
men  then  ? '  Not  our  Government  only,  or  the  House  where- 
in our  life  was  led,  but  the  Life  itself  we  led  there,  will  be 
inquired  into.  Of  which  latter  it  may  be  found  that  Gov- 
ernment, in  any  modern  sense  of  the  word,  is  after  all  but 
a  secondary  condition :  in  the  mere  sense  of  Taxation  and 
Keejnug  quiet,  a  small,  almost  a  pitiful  one. — Meanwhile 
let  us  welcome  such  Boswells,  each  in  his  degree,  as  bring 
us  any  genuine  contribution,  were  it  never  so  inadequate,  so 
inconsiderable. 

An  exception  was  early  taken  against  this  Life  of  John- 
son, and  all  similar  enterprises,  which  we  here  recommend; 
and  has  been  transmitted  from  critic  to  critic,  and  repeated 
in  their  several  dialects,  uninterruptedly,  ever  since:  That 
such  jottings-down  of  careless  conversation  are  an  infringe- 
ment of  social  privacy;  a  crime  against  our  highest  Free- 
dom, the  Freedom  of  man's  intercourse  with  man.  To  this 
accusation,  which  we  have  read  and  heard  oftener  than 
enough,  might  it  not  be  well  for  once  to  offer  the  flattest 
contradiction,  and  plea  of  Not  at  all  guilty  9  Not  that  con- 
versation is  noted  down,  but  that  conversation  should  not 
deserve  noting  down,  is  the  evil.  Doubtless,  if  conversa- 
tion be  falsely  recorded,  then  is  it  simply  a  Lie  ;  and  worthy 
of  being  swept,  with  all  despatch,  to  the  Father  of  Lies. 
But  if,  on  the  other  hand,  conversation  can  be  authentically 
recorded,  and  any  one  is  ready  for  the  task,  let  him  by  all 
means  proceed  with  it ;  let  conversation  be  kept  in  remem- 
brance to  the  latest  date  possible.  Nay,  should  the  con- 
sciousness that  a  man  may  be  among  us  '  taking  notes '  tend, 
in  any  measure,  to  restrict  those  floods  of  idle  insincere 
speech,  with  which  the  thought  of  mankind  is  wellnigh 
drowned,  —  were  it  other  than  the  most  indubitable  benefit  ? 
He  who  speaks  honestly  cares  not,  needs  not  care,  though 
his  words  be  preserved  to  remotest  time :  for  him  who 
speaks  c7/shonestly,  the  fittest  of  all  punishments  seems  to 


104  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

be  this  same,  which  the  nature  of  the  case  provides.  The 
dishonest  speaker,  not  he  only  who  purposely  utters  false- 
hoods, but  he  who  does  not  purposely,  and  with  sincere 
heart,  utter  Truth,  and  Truth  alone ;  who  babbles  he  knows 
not  what,  and  has  clapped  no  bridle  on  his  tongue,  but  lets 
it  run  racket,  ejecting  chatter  and  futility, — is  among  the 
most  indisputable  malefactors  omitted,  or  inserted,  in  the 
Criminal  Calendar.  To  him  that  will  well  consider  it,  i41e 
speakino:  is  precisely  the  beginning  of  all  Hollowness,  Half- 
ness,  Infidelity  (want  of  Faithfulness);  the  genial  atmos- 
phere in  which  rank  weeds  of  every  kind  attain  the  mastery 
over  noble  fruits  in  man's  life,  and  utterly  choke  them  out: 
one  of  the  most  crying  maladies  of  these  days,  and  to  be 
testified  against,  and  in  all  ways  to  the  uttermost  withstood. 
Wise,  of  a  wisdom  far  beyond  our  shallow  depth,  was  that 
old  precept:  Watch  thy  tongue;  out  of  it  are  the  issues  of 
Life  !  ^Man  is  properly  an  incarnated  icord;^  the  'word  that 
he  speaks  is  the  man  himself.  Were  eyes  put  into  our  head, 
that  we  might  see;  or  only  that  we  might  fancy,  and  plaus- 
ibly pretend,  we  had  seen  f  Was  the  tongue  suspended 
there,  that  it  might  tell  truly  what  we  had  seen,  and  make 
man  the  soul' s-br other  of  man ;  or  only  that  it  might  utter 
vain  sounds,  jargon,  soul-confusing,  and  so  divide  man,  as  by 
enchanted  walls  of  Darkness,  from  union  with  man  ?  Thou 
who  wearest  that  cunning,  heaven-made  organ,  a  Tongue, 
think  well  of  this.  Speak  not,  I  passionately  entreat  thee, 
till  thy  thought  hath  silently  matured  itself,  till  thou  have 
other  than  mad  and  mad-looking  noises  to  emit:  hold  thy 
tongue  (thou  hast  it  a-hol ding) -till  some  meaning  lie  behind, 
to  set  it  wagging.  Consider  the  significance  of  Silexce:  it 
is  boundless,  never  by  meditating  to  be  exhausted ;  unspeak- 
ably profitable  to  thee !  Cease  that  chaotic  hubbub,  wherein 
thy  own  soul  runs  to  waste,  to  confused  suicidal  dislocation 
and  stupor:  out  of  Silence  comes  thy  strength.  ^Speech 
is  silvern.  Silence  is  golden;  Speech  is  human,  Silence  is 


BoswelVs   Life    of  Johnson,  105 

divine.'  Fool !  thiukest  thou  that  because  no  Bos\7ell  is 
there  with  ass-skin  and  blacklead  to  note  thy  jargon,  it  there- 
fore dies  and  is  harmless  ?  Nothing  dies,  nothing  can  die. 
No  idlest  word  thou  speakest  but  is  a  seed  cast  into  Time, 
and  grows  through  all  Eternity  !  The  Eecording  Angel,  con- 
sider it  well,  is  no  fable,  but  the  truest  of  truths :  the  paper 
tablets  thou  canst  burn ;  of  the  '  iron  leaf '  there  is  no  burn- 
ing. Truly,  if  we  can  permit  God  Almighty  to  note  down 
our  conversation,  thinking  it  good  enough  for  Him,  —  any 
poor  Boswell  need  not  scruple  to  work  his  will  of  it. 

Leaving  now  this  our  English  Odyssey,  with  its  Singer  and 
Scholiast,  let  us  come  to  the  Ulysses;  that  great  Samuel 
Johnson  himself,  the  far-experienced,  'much-enduring  man,' 
whose  labors  and  pilgrimage  are  here  sung.  A  full-length 
image  of  his  Existence  has  been  preserved  for  us :  and  he, 
perhaps  of  all  living  Englishmen,  was  the  one  who  best 
deserved  that  honor.  For  if  it  is  true,  and  now  almost  pro- 
verbial, that  'the  Life  of  the  lowest  mortal,  if  faithfully 
recorded,  would  be  interesting  to  the  highest ; '  how  much 
more  when  the  mortal  in  question  was  already  distinguished 
in  fortune  and  natural  quality,  so  that  his  thinkings  and 
doings  were  not  significant  of  himself  only,  but  of  large 
masses  of  mankind !  '  There  is  not  a  man  whom  I  meet  on 
the  streets,'  says  one,  '  but  I  could  like,  were  it  otherwise 
convenient,  to  know  his  Biography  : '  nevertheless,  could  an 
enlightened  curiosity  be  so  far  gratified,  it  must  be  owned 
the  Biography  of  most  ought  to  be,  in  an  extreme  degree, 
summary.  In  this  world,  there  is  so  wonderfully  little  self- 
subsistence  among  men ;  next  to  no  originality  (though  never 
absolutely  7ione) :  one  Life  is  too  servilely  the  copy  of 
another ;  and  so  in  whole  thousands  of  them  you  find  little 
that  is  properly  new;  nothing  but  the  old  song  sung  by  a 
new  voice,  with  better  or  worse  execution,  here  and  there  an 
ornamental  quaver,  and  false  notes  enough :  but  the  fuuda- 


106  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

mental  tune  is  ever  the  same ;  and  for  the  tcords,  —  these, 
all  that  they  meant  stands  written  generally  on  the  Church- 
yard-stone:  Natussum;  esurieham,  qumrebam ;  nunc  repletiis 
requiesco.  Mankind  sail  their  Life- voyage  in  huge  fleets, 
following  some  single  whale-fishing  or  herring-fishing  Com- 
modore :  the  log-book  of  each  differs  not,  in  essential  purport, 
from  that  of  any  other :  nay,  the  most  have  no  legible  log-book 
(reflection,  observation  not  being  among  their  talents) ;  keep 
no  reckoning,  only  keep  in  sight  of  the  flagship,  —  and  fish. 
Read  the  Commodore's  Papers  (know  his  Life)  ;  and  even 
your  lover  of  that  street  Biography  will  have  learned  the 
most  of  what  he  sought  after. 

Or,  the  servile  imitancy,  and  yet  also  a  nobler  relationship 
and  mysterious  union  to  one  another  which  lies  in  such  imi- 
tancy of  Mankind,  might  be  illustrated  under  the  different 
figure,  itself  nowise  original,  of  a  Flock  of  Sheep.  Sheep  go 
in  flocks  for  three  reasons.  First,  because  they  are  of  a  gre- 
garious temper,  and  love  to  be  together :  Secondly,  because 
of  their  cowardice  ;  they  are  afraid  to  be  left  alone  :  Thirdly, 
because  the  common  run  of  them  are  dull  of  sight,  to  a  pro- 
verb, and  can  have  no  choice  in  roads ;  sheep  can  in  fact  see 
nothing ;  in  a  celestial  Luminary,  and  a  scoured  pewter  Tank- 
ard, would  discern  only  that  both  dazzled  them,  and  were  of 
unspeakable  glory.  How  like  their  fellow-creatures  of  the 
human  species  !  Men  too,  as  was  from  the  first  maintained 
here,  are  gregarious;  then  surely  faint-hearted  enough, 
trembling  to  be  left  by  themselves  ;  above  all,  dull-sighted, 
down  to  the  verge  of  utter  blindness.  Thus  are  we  seen 
ever  running  in  torrents,  and  mobs,  if  we  run  at  all ;  and 
after  what  foolish  scoured  Tankards,  mistaking  them  for 
Suns  !  Foolish  Turnip-lanterns  likewise,  to  all  appearance 
supernatural,  keep  whole  nations  quaking,  their  hair  on  end. 
Neither  know  we,  except  by  blind  habit,  where  the  good 
pastures  lie :  solely  when  the  sweet  grass  is  between  our 
teeth,  we  know  it,  and  chew  it ;  also  when  grass  is  bitter 


BostveWs  Life  of  Johnson.  107 

and  scant,  we  know  it,  —  and  bleat  and  butt :  these  last  two 
facts  we  know  of  a  truth  and  in  very  deed.  Thus  do  Men 
and  Sheep  play  their  parts  on  this  Nether  Earth ;  wander- 
ing restlessly  in  large  masses,  they  know  not  whither ;  for 
most  part,  each  following  his  neighbor,  and  his  own  nose. 

Nevertheless,  not  always ;  look  better,  you  shall  find 
certain  that  do,  in  some  small  degree,  know  whither.  Sheep 
have  their  Bell-wether ;  some  ram  of  the  folds,  endued  with 
more  valor,  with  clearer  vision  than  other  sheep ;  he  leads 
them  through  the  wolds,  by  height  and  hollow,  to  the  woods 
and  water-courses,  for  covert  or  for  pleasant  provender ; 
courageously  marching,  and  if  need  be  leaping,  and  with 
hoof  and  horn  doing  battle,  in  the  van :  him  they  courage- 
ously and  with  assured  heart  follow.  Touching  it  is,  as 
every  herdsman  will  inform  you,  with  what  chivalrous 
devotedness  these  woolly  Hosts  adhere  to  their  Wether ; 
and  rush  after  him,  through  good  report  and  through  bad 
report,  were  it  into  safe  shelters  and  green  thymy  nooks,  or 
into  asphaltic  lakes  and  the  jaws  of  devouring  lions.  Ever 
also  must  we  recall  that  fact  which  we  owe  Jean  Paul's 
quick  eye :  '  If  you  hold  a  stick  before  the  Wether,  so  that 
he,  by  necessity,  leaps  in  passing  you,  and  then  withdraw 
your  stick,  the  Flock  will  nevertheless  all  leap  as  he  did  ; 
and  the  thousandth  sheep  shall  be  found  impetuously  vault- 
ing over  air,  as  the  first  did  over  an  otherwise  impassable 
barrier.'  Eeader,  wouldst  thou  understand  Society,  ponder 
well  those  ovine  proceedings ;  thou  wilt  find  them  all 
curiously  significant. 

Now  if  sheep  always,  how  much  more  must  men  always, 
have  their  Chief,  their  Guide !  Man  too  is  by  nature  quite 
thoroughly  gregarious :  nay,  ever  he  struggles  to  be  some- 
thing more,  to  be  social;  not  even  when  Society  has  become 
impossible,  does  that  deep-seated  tendency  and  effort  for- 
sake him.  Man,  as  if  by  miraculous  magic,  imparts  his 
Thoughts,  his  Mood  of  mind  to  man ;  an  unspeakable  com- 


108  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

mnnion  binds  all  past,  present,  and  future  men  into  one 
indissoluble  whole,  almost  into  one  living  individual.  Of 
which  high,  mysterious  Truth,  this  disposition  to  imitate,  to 
lead  and  be  led,  this  impossibility  not  to  imitate,  is  the  most 
constant,  and  one  of  the  simplest,  of  manifestations.  To 
'imitate ' !  which  of  us  all  can  measure  the  significance  that 
lies  in-  that  one  word  ?  By  virtue  of  which  the  infant  Man, 
born  at  Woolsthorpe,  grows  up  not  to  be  a  hairy  Savage,  and 
chewer  of  Acorns,  but  an  Isaac  Newton  and  Discoverer  of 
Solar  Systems !  —  Thus  both  in  a  celestial  and  terrestrial 
sense  are  we  a  Flock,  such  as  there  is  no  other :  nay,  looking 
away  from  the  base  and  ludicrous  to  the  sublime  and  sacred 
side  of  the  matter  (since  in  every  matter  there  are  two 
sides),  have  not  we  also  a  Shepherd,  'if  we  will  but  hear  his 
voice '  ?  Of  those  stupid  multitudes  there  is  no  one  but  has 
an  immortal  Soul  within  him ;  a  reflex  and  living  image  of 
God's  whole  Universe  :  strangely,  from  its  dim  environment, 
the  light  of  the  Highest  looks  through  him;  —  for  which 
reason,  indeed,  it  is  that  we  claim  a  brotherhood  with  him, 
and  so  love  to  know  his  History,  and  come  into  clearer  and 
clearer  union  with  all  that  he  feels,  and  says,  and  does. 

However,  the  chief  thing  to  be  noted  was  this:  Amid 
those  dull  millions,  who,  as  a  dull  flock,  roll  hither  and 
thither,  whithersoever  they  are  led ;  and  seem  all  sightless 
and  slavish,  accomplishing,  attempting  little  save  what  the 
animal  instinct  in  its  somewhat  higher  kind  might  teach. 
To  keep  themselves  and  their  young  ones  alive,  —  are 
scattered  here  and  there  superior  natures,  whose  eye  is  not 
destitute  of  free  vision,  nor  their  heart  of  free  volition. 
These  latter,  therefore,  examine  and  determine,  not  what 
others  do,  but  what  it  is  right  to  do ;  towards  which,  and 
which  only,  will  they,  with  such  force  as  is  given  them, 
resolutely  endeavor :  for  if  the  Machine,  living  or  inanimate, 
is  merely  fed,  or  desires  to  be  fed,  and  so  icorks ;  the  Person 
can  will,  and  so  do.     These  are  proj^erly  our  Men,  our  Great 


BoswelVs  Life  of  Johnson.  109 

Men ;  the  guides  of  the  dull  host,  —  which  follows  them  as 
by  an  irrevocable  decree.     They  are  the  chosen  of  the  world  : 
they  had  this  rare  faculty  not  only  of  '  supposing '  and  '  in- 
clining to  think/  but  of  knowing  and  believing ;  the  nature 
of  their  being  was,  that  they  lived  not  by  Hearsay,  but  by 
clear  Vision ;  while  others  hovered  and  swam  along,  in  the 
grand  Vanity-fair  of  the  World,  blinded  by  the  mere  Shows 
of  things,  these  saw  into  the  Things  themselves,  and  could 
walk  as  men  having  an  eternal  loadstar,  and  with  their  feet 
on  sure  paths.     Thus  was  there  a  Reality  in  their  existence ;   ■-^ 
something  of   a   perennial  character ;    in    virtue   of   which 
indeed  it  is  that  the  memory  of  them  is  i^erennial.     Whoso 
belongs  only  to  his  own  age,  and  reverences  only  its  gilt 
Popinjays  or  soot-smeared   Mumboj umbos,  must  needs  die 
with  it :  though  he  have  been  crowned  seven  times  in  the 
Capitol,  or  seventy-and-seven  times,  and  Rumor  have  blown 
his  praises  to  all  the  four  winds,  deafening  every  ear  there- 
with, —  it  avails  not ;  there  was  nothing  universal,  nothing 
eternal  in  him ;  he  must  fade  away,  even  as  the  Popinjay- 
gildings   and   Scarecrow-apparel,  which  he   could   not   see 
through.     The  great  man  does,  in  good  truth,  belong  to  his   ' 
own  age ;  nay,  more  so  than  any  other  man ;  being  properly 
the  synopsis  and  epitome  of  such  age  with  its  interests  and 
influences :  but  belongs  likewise  to  all  ages,  otherwise  he  is 
not  great.     What  was  transitory  in  him  passes  away ;  and  . 
an  immortal  part  remains,  the  significance  of  which  is  inl 
strict  speech  inexhaustible,  —  as  that  of  every  real  object  is.  1 
Aloft,  conspicuous,  on  his  enduring  basis,  he  stands  there, 
serene,  unaltering ;  silently  addresses  to  every  new  genera-  I 
tion  a  new  lesson  and  monition.     Well  is  his  Life  worth  ' 
writing,  worth  interpreting ;  and  ever,  in  the  new  dialect  of 
new  times,  of  re-writing  and  re-interpreting.    , 

Of  such  chosen  men  was  Samuel  Johnson:  not  ranking 
among  the  highest,  or  even  the  high,  yet  distinctly  admitted 
into  that  sacred  band ;  whose  existence  Avas  no  idle  Dream, 


110  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

but  a  Reality  which  he  transacted  awake;  nowise  a  Clothes- 
horse  and  Patent  Digester,  but  a  genuine  Man.  By  nature 
he  was  gifted  for  the  noblest  of  earthly  tasks,  that  of  Priest- 
hood, and  Guidance  of  mankind ;  by  destiny,  moreover,  he 
was  appointed  to  this  task,  and  did  actually,  according  to 
strength,  fulfil  the  same  :  so  that  always  the  question.  How ; 
in  ivhat  spirit;  under  what  sliape  ?  remains  for  us  to  be  asked 
and  answered  concerning  him.  For,  as  the  highest  Gospel 
was  ^  Biography,  so  is  the  Life  of  every  good  man  still  an 
indubitable  Gospel,  and  preaches  to  the  eye  and  heart  and 
whole  man,  so  that  Devils  even  must  believe,  and  tremble, 
these  gladdest  tidings  :  "  Man  is  heaven-born ;  not  the  thrall 
of  Circumstances,  of  Necessity,  but  the  victorious  subduer 
thereof:  behold  how  he  can  become  the  'Announcer  of 
himself  and  of  his  Freedom ; '  and  is  ever  what  the  Thinker 
has  named  him,  '  the  Messias  of  Nature.' "  —  Yes,  E-eader, 
all  this  that  thou  hast  so  often  heard  about '  force  of  circum- 
stances,' '  the  creature  of  the  time,'  '  balancing  of  motives,' 
and  who  knows  what  melancholy  stuff  to  the  like  purport, 
wherein  thou,  as  in  a  nightmare  Dream,  sittest  paralyzed, 
and  hast  no  force  left,  —  was  in  very  truth,  if  Johnson  and 
waking  men  are  to  be  credited,  little  other  than  a  hag-ridden 
vision  of  death-sleep,  some  /ia//-fact,  more  fatal  at  times 
than  a  whole  falsehood.  Shake  it  off ;  awake ;  up  and  be 
doing,  even  as  it  is  given  thee  ! 

The  Contradiction  which  yawns  wide  enough  in  every 
Life,  which  it  is  the  meaning  and  task  of  Life  to  reconcile, 
was  in  Johnson's  wider  than  in  most.  Seldom,  for  any 
man,  has  the  contrast  between  the  ethereal  heavenward  side 
of  things,  and  the  dark  sordid  earthward,  been  more  glaring : 
whether  we  look  at  Nature's  work  wdth  him  or  Fortune's, 
from  first  to  last,  heterogeneity,  as  of  sunbeams  and  miry 
clay,  is  on  all  hands  manifest.  AVhereby  indeed,  only  this 
was  declared.  That  much  Life  had  been  given  him ;  many 
things  to  triumph  over,  a  great  work  to  do.  Happily  also 
he  did  it ;  better  than  the  most. 


BosivelVs   Life    of  Johnson.  Ill 

Nature  had  given  him  a  high,  keen-visionecl,  almost  poetic 
soul ;  yet  withal  imprisoned  it  in  an  inert,  unsightly  body : 
he  that  could  never  rest  had  not  limbs  that  would  move 
with  him,  but  only  roll  and  waddle :  the  inward  eye,  all- 
penetrating,  all-embracing,  must  look  through  bodily  win- 
dows that  were  dim,  half-blinded;  he  so  loved  men,  and 
'  never  once  saw  the  human  face  divine ' !  Not  less  did  he 
prize  the  love  of  men ;  he  was  eminently  social ;  the  appro- 
bation of  his  fellows  was  dear  to  him,  'valuable,'  as  he 
owned,  '  if  from  the  meanest  of  human  beings  : '  yet  the 
first  impression  he  produced  on  every  man  was  to  be  one 
of  aversion,  almost  of  disgust.  By  Nature  it  was  farther 
ordered  that  the  imperious  Johnson  should  be  born  poor : 
the  ruler-soul,  strong  in  its  native  royalty,  generous,  un- 
controllable, like  the  lion  of  the  woods,  was  to  be  housed 
then  in  such  a  dwelling-place :  of  Disfigurement,  Disease, 
and  lastly  of  a  Poverty  which  itself  made  him  the  servant 
of  servants.  Thus  was  the  born  king  likewise  a  born  slave  : 
the  divine  spirit  of  Music  must  awake  imprisoned  amid 
dull-croaking  universal  Discords ;  the  Ariel  finds  himself 
encased  in  the  coarse  hulls  of  a  Caliban.  So  is  it  more  or 
less,  we  know  (and  thou,  0  Reader,  knowest  and  feelest 
even  now),  with  all  men :  yet  with  the  fewest  men  in  any 
such  degree  as  with  Johnson. 

Fortune,  moreover,  which  had  so  managed  his  first  appear- 
ance in  the  world,  lets  not  her  hand  lie  idle,  or  turn  the  other 
way,  but  works  unweariedly  in  the  same  spirit,  while  he  is 
journeying  through  the  world.  What  such  a  mind,  stamped 
of  Nature's  noblest  metal,  though  in  so  ungainly  a  die,  was 
specially  and  best  of  all  fitted  for,  might  still  be  a  question. 
To  none  of  the  world's  few  Incorporated  Guilds  could  he 
have  adjusted  himself  without  difficulty,  without  distortion; 
in  none  been  a  Guild-Brother  well  at  ease.  Perhaps,  if  we 
look  to  the  strictly  practical  nature  of  his  faculty,  to  the 
strength,  decision,  method  that  manifests  itself  in  him,  we 


112  Selections  from   Oarlyle. 

may  say  that  his  calling  was  rather  towards  Active  than 
Speculative  life ;  that  as  Statesman  (in  the  higher,  now 
obsolete  sense),  Lawgiver,  Ruler,  in  short  as  Doer  of  the 
AVork,  he  had  shone  even  more  than  as  Speaker  of  the  Word. 
His  honesty  of  heart,  his  courageous  temper,  the  value  he  set 
on  things  outward  and  material,  might  have  made  him  a  King 
among  Kings.  Had  the  golden  age  of  those  new  French 
Prophets,  when  it  shall  be  a  cliacun  selon  sa  capacite,  d,  chaque 
capacite  selon  ses  oeiwres,  but  arrived !  Indeed,  even  in  our 
brazen  and  Birmingham-lacquer  age,  he  himself  regretted 
that  he  had  not  become  a  Lawyer,  and  risen  to  be  Chancellor, 
which  he  might  well  have  done.  However,  it  was  otherwise 
appointed.  To  no  man  does  Fortune  throw  open  all  the 
kingdoms  of  this  world,  and  say  :  '  It  is  thine  ;  choose  where 
thou  wilt  dwell ! '  To  the  most  she  opens  hardly  the  smallest 
cranny  or  dog-hutch,  and  says,  not  without  asperity :  '  There, 
that  is  thine  while  thou  canst  keep  it ;  nestle  thyself  there, 
and  bless  Heaven ! '  Alas,  men  must  fit  themselves  into  many 
things :  some  forty  years  ago,  for  instance,  the  noblest  and 
ablest  Man  in  all  the  British  lands  might  be  seen,  not  sway- 
ing the  royal  sceptre,  or  the  pontiff's  censer,  on  the  pinnacle 
of  the  World,  but  gauging  ale-tubs  in  the  little  burgh  of 
Dumfries !  Johnson  came  a  little  nearer  the  mark  than 
Burns :  but  with  him  too  '  Strength  was  mournfully  denied 
its  arena ; '  he  too  had  to  fight  Fortune  at  strange  odds,  all 
his  life  long. 

Johnson's  disposition  for  royalty  (had  the  Fates  so  ordered 
it)  is  well  seen  in  early  boyhood.  ^His  favorites,'  says  Bos- 
well,  '  used  to  receive  very  liberal  assistance  from  him  5  and 
such  was  the  submission  and  deference  with  which  he  was 
treated,  that  three  of  the  boys,  of  whom  Mr.  Hector  was 
sometimes  one,  used  to  come  in  the  morning  as  his  humble 
attendants,  and  carry  him  to  school.  One  in  the  middle 
stooped,  while  he  sat  upon  his  back,  and  one  on  each  side 
supported  him ;  and  thus  was  he  borne  triumphant.'     The 


BoswelVs   Life   of  Johnson.  113 

purfly,  sand-blind  lubber  and  blubber,  with,  bis  open  mouth, 
and  face  of  bruised  honeycomb;  yet  already  dominant, 
imperial,  irresistible  !  Not  in  the  '  King's-chair '  (of  human 
arms),  as  we  see,  do  his  three  satellites  carry  him  along : 
rather  on  the  Tyranfs-saclcUe,  the  back  of  his  fellow-creature, 
must  he  ride  prosperous  !  —  The  child  is  father  of  the  man. 
He  who  had  seen  fifty  years  into  coming  Time,  would  have 
felt  that  little  spectacle  of  mischievous  schoolboys  to  be  a 
great  one.  For  us,  who  look  back  on  it,  and  what  followed 
it,  now  from  afar,  there  arise  questions  enough :  How  looked 
these  urchins  ?  What  jackets  and  galligaskins  had  they ; 
felt  headgear,  or  of  dogskin  leather  ?  What  was  old  Lich- 
field doing  then ;  what  thinking  ?  —  and  so  on,  through  the 
whole  series  of  Corporal  Trim's  'auxiliary  verbs.'  A  picture 
of  it  all  fashions  itself  together ;  —  only  unhappily  we  have 
no  brush  and  no  fingers. 

Boyhood  is  now  past;  the  ferula  of  Pedagogue  waves 
harmless,  in  the  distance :  Samuel  has  struggled  up  to  un- 
couth bulk  and  youthhood,  wrestling  with  Disease  and 
Poverty,  all  the  way ;  which  two  continue  still  his  compan- 
ions. At  College  we  see  little  of  him ;  yet  thus  much,  that 
things  went  not  well.  A  rugged  Wild-man  of  the  desert, 
awakened  to  the  feeling  of  himself ;  proud  as  the  proudest, 
poor  as  the  poorest ;  stoically  shut  up,  silently  enduring  the 
incurable  :  what  a  world  of  blackest  gloom,  with  sun-gleams 
and  pale  tearful  moon-gleams,  and  flickerings  of  a  celestial 
and  an  infernal  splendor,  was  this  that  now  opened  for  him ! 
But  the  weather  is  wintry ;  and  the  toes  of  the  man  are 
looking  through  his  shoes.  His  muddy  features  grow  of  a 
purple  and  sea-green  color;  a  flood  of  black  indignation 
mantling  beneath.  A  truculent,  raw-boned  figure  !  Meat  he 
has  probably  little ;  hope  he  has  less :  his  feet,  as  we  said, 
have  come  into  brotherhood  with  the  cold  mire. 

'  Shall  I  be  particular,'  inquires  Sir  John  Hawkins,  'and  relate  a 
circumstance  of  his  distress,  that  cannot  be  imputed  to  him  as  an  effect 


114  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

of  his  own  extravagance  or  irregularity,  and  consequently  reflects  no 
disgrace  on  his  memory  ?  He  had  scarce  any  change  of  raiment,  and 
in  a  short  time  after  Corhet  left  him,  "but  one  pair  of  shoes,  and  those  so 
old  that  his  feet  were  seen  through  them  :  a  gentleman  of  his  college, 
the  father  of  an  eminent  clergyman  now  living,  directed  a  servitor  one 
morning  to  place  a  new  pair  at  the  door  of  Johnson's  chamber  ;  who, 
seeing  them  upon  his  first  going  out,  so  far  forgot  himself  and  the  spirit 
which  must  have  actuated  his  unknown  benefactor,  that,  with  all  the 
indignation  of  an  insulted  man,  he  threw  them  away. ' 

How  exceedingly  surprising !  —  The  Eev.  Dr.  Hall  re- 
marks :  'As  far  as  we  can  judge  from  a  cursory  view  of  tlie 
weekly  account  in  the  butter^^-books,  Johnson  appears  to 
have  lived  as  well  as  other  commoners  and  scholars.'  Alas  ! 
such  '  cursory  view  of  the  buttery -books/  now  from  the  safe 
distance  of  a  century,  in  the  safe  chair  of  a  College  Mas- 
tership, is  one  thing ;  the  continual  view  of  the  empty  or 
locked  buttery  itself  was  quite  a  different  thing.  But  hear 
our  Knight,  how  he  farther  discourses.  '  Johnson,'  quoth 
Sir  John,  '  could  not  at  this  early  period  of  his  life  divest 
himself  of  an  idea  that  poverty  was  disgraceful ;  and  was 
very  severe  in  his  censures  of  that  economy  in  both  our 
Universities,  which  exacted  at  meals  the  attendance  of  poor 
scholars,  under  the  several  denominations  of  Servitors  in  the 
one,  and  Sizars  in  the  other :  he  thought  that  the  scholar's, 
like  the  Christian  life,  leveled  all  distinctions  of  rank  and 
worldly  preeminence;  but  in  this  he  was  mistaken:  civil 
polity  '  &c.  &c.  — Too  true  !     It  is  man's  lot  to  err. 

However,  Destiny,  in  all  ways,  means  to  prove  the  mis- 
taken Samuel,  and  see  what  stuff  is  in  him.  He  must  leave 
these  butteries  of  Oxford,  Want  like  an  armed  man  compel- 
ling him ;  retreat  into  his  father's  mean  home ;  and  there 
abandon  himself  for  a  season  to  inaction,  disappointment, 
shame,  and  nervous  melancholy  nigh  run  mad :  he  is  prob- 
ably the  wretchedest  man  in  wide  England.  In  all  ways  he 
too  must  '  become  jDerfect  through  suffering.^ —  High  thoughts 
have  visited  him ;  his  College  Exercises  have  been  praised 


BosivelVs   Life    of  Johnson.  115 

beyond  the  walls  of  College;  Pope  himself  has  seen  that 
Translation,  and  approved  of  it :  Samuel  had  whispered  to 
himself:  I  too  am  'one  and  somewhat.'  False  thoughts; 
that  leave  only  misery  behind !  The  fever-fire  of  Ambition 
is  too  painfully  extinguished  (but  not  cured)  in  the  frost- 
bath  of  Poverty.  Johnson  has  knocked  at  the  gate,  as  one 
having  a  right ;  but  there  was  no  opening :  the  world  lies  all 
encircled  as  with  brass ;  nowhere  can  he  find  or  force  the 
smallest  entrance.  An  ushership  at  Market  Bosworth,  and 
'a  disagreement  between  him  and  Sir  Wolstan  Dixie,  the 
patron  of  the  school,'  yields  him  bread  of  affliction  and  water 
of  affliction ;  but  so  bitter,  that  unassisted  human  nature  can- 
not swallow  them.  Young  Samson  will  grind  no  more  in  the 
Philistine  mill  of  Bosworth ;  quits  hold  of  Sir  Wolstan,  and 
the  '  domestic  chaplaincy,  so  far  at  least  as  to  say  grace  at 
table,'  and  also  to  be  '  treated  with  what  he  represented  as 
intolerable  harshness  ;'  and  so,  after  '  some  months  of  such 
complicated  misery,'  feeling  doubtless  that  there  are  worse 
things  in  the  world  than  quick  death  by  Famine,  'relin- 
quishes a  situation  which  all  his  life  afterwards  he  recol- 
lected with  the  strongest  aversion,  and  even  horror.'  Men 
like  Johnson  are  properly  called  the  Forlorn  Hope  of  the 
World  :  judge  whether  his  hope  was  forlorn  or  not,  by  this 
Letter  to  a  dull  oily  Printer,  who  called  himself  Sylvanus 
Urban : 

'  Sir,  —  As  you  appear  no  less  sensible  than  your  readers  of  the 
defect  of  your  poetical  article,  you  will  not  be  displeased  if  (in  order 
to  the  improvement  of  it)  I  communicate  to  you  the  sentiments  of  a 
person  who  will  undertake,  on  reasonable  terms,  sometimes  to  fill  a 
column. 
'His  opinion  is,  that  the  public  would'  &c.  &c, 

'  If  such  a  correspondence  will  be  agreeable  to  you,  be  pleased  to 
inform  me  in  two  posts,  what  i:he  conditions  are  on  which  you  shall 
expect  it.  Your  late  offer  (for  a  Prize  Poem)  gives  me  no  reason  to 
distrust  your  generosity.  If  you  engage  in  any  literary  projects  be- 
sides this  paper,  I  have  other  designs  to  impart.' 


116  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

Reader,  the  generous  person  to  whom  this  letter  goes  ad- 
dressed, is  '  Mr.  Edmund  Cave,  at  St.  John's  Gate,  London  ; ' 
the  addressor  of  it  is  Samuel  Johnson,  in  Birmingham,  War- 
wickshire. 

Nevertheless,  Life  rallies  in  the  man ;  reasserts  its  right 
to  be  lived,  even  to  be  enjoyed.  '  Better  a  small  bush,'  say 
the  Scotch,  '  than  no  shelter : '  Johnson  learns  to  be  con- 
tented with  humble  human  things ;  and  is  there  not  already 
an  actual  realized  human  Existence,  all  stirring  and  living 
on  every  hand  of  him  ?  Go  thou  and  do  likewise !  In 
Birmingham  itself,  with  his  own  purchased  goose-quill,  he 
can  earn  '■  five  guineas ; '  nay,  finally,  the  choicest  terrestrial 
good :  a  Eriend,  who  will  be  Wife  to  him  !  Johnson's  mar- 
riage with  the  good  Widow  Porter  has  been  treated  with  ridi- 
cule by  many  mortals,  who  apparently  had  no  understanding 
thereof.  That  the  purblind,  seamy-faced  Wild-man,  stalk- 
ing lonely,  woe-stricken,  like  some  Irish  Gallowglass  with 
peeled  club,  whose  speech  no  man  knew,  whose  look  all  men 
both  laughed  at  and  shuddered  at,  should  find  any  brave  fe- 
male heart  to  acknowledge,  at  first  sight  and  hearing  of  him, 
'  This  is  the  most  sensible  man  I  ever  met  with ; '  and  then, 
with  generous  courage,  to  take  him  to  itself,  and  say, '  Be  thou 
mine  ;  be  thou  warmed  here,  and  thawed  to  life ! ' — in  all  this, 
in  the  kind  Widow's  love  and  pity  for  him,  in  Johnson's  love 
and  gratitude,  there  is  actually  no  matter  for  ridicule.  Their 
wedded  life,  as  is  the  common  lot,  was  made  up  of  drizzle 
and  dry  weather  ;  but  innocence  and  worth  dwelt  in  it ;  and, 
wheh  death  had  ended  it,  a  certain  sacredness :  Johnson's 
deathless  affection  for  his  Tetty  was  always  venerable  and 
noble. 

However,  be  all  this  as  it  might,  Johnson  is  now  minded 
to  wed ;  and  will  live  by  the  trade  of  Pedagogy,  for  by  this 
also  may  life  be  kept-in.  Let  the  world  therefore  take 
notice :  '  At  Edial  near  Lichfield ,  in  Staffordshire,  yoking 
gentlemen   are   hoarded,   and    taught   the  Latin   and    Greek 


BosiuelVs   Life    of  Johnson.  117 

languages,  by  —  Samuel  Johnsox.'  Had  this  Eclial  enter- 
prise prospered,  how  different  might  the  issue  have  been ! 
Johnson  had  lived  a  life  of  unnoticed  nobleness,  or,  swoln 
into  some  amorphous  Dr.  Parr,  of  no  avail  to  us;  Bozzy 
Avould  have  dwindled  into  official  insignificance,  or  risen 
by  some  other  elevation;  old  Auchinleck  had  never  been 
afflicted  with  'ane  that  keeped  a  schule,'  or  obliged  to 
violate  hospitality  by  a  "  Cromwell  do  ?  God,  sir,  he  gart 
kings  ken  that  there  was  a  litli  in  their  neck ! "  —  But  the 
Edial  enterprise  did  not  prosper ;  Destiny  had  other  work 
appointed  for  Samuel  J  ohnson ;  and  young  gentlemen  got 
board  where  they  could  elsewhere  find  it.  This  man  was 
to  become  a  Teacher  of  grown  gentlemen,  in  the  most  sur- 
prising Avay ;  a  Man  of  Letters,  and  Ruler  of  the  British 
Nation  for  some  time,  —  not  of  their  bodies  merely,  but  of 
their  minds  ;  not  over  them,  but  in  them. 

The  career  of  Literature  could  not,  in  Johnson's  day  any 
more  than  now,  be  said  to  lie  along  the  shores  of  a  Pactolus : 
whatever  else  might  be  gathered  there,  gold-dust  was  nowise 
the  chief  produce.  The  w^orld,  from  the  times  of  Socrates, 
St.  Paul,  and  far  earlier,  has  always  had  its  Teachers ;  and 
always  treated  them  in  a  peculiar  way.  A  shrewd  Town- 
clerk  (not  of  Ephesus),  once,  in  founding  a  Burgh-Seminary, 
when  the  question  came.  How  the  Schoolmasters  should  be 
maintained?  delivered  this  brief  counsel:  "D — n  them, 
keep  them  poor!^^  Considerable  wisdom  may  lie  in  this 
aphorism.  At  all  events,  we  see,  the  world  has  acted  on  it 
long,  and  indeed  improved  on  it,  —  putting  many  a  School- 
master of  its  great  Burgh-Seminary  to  a  death  which  even 
cost  it  something.  The  world,  it  is  true,  had  for  some  time 
been  too  busy  to  go  out  of  its  w^ay,  and  put  any  Author  to 
death ;  however,  the  old  sentence  pronounced  against  them 
w-as  found  to  be  pretty  sufficient.  The  first  Writers,  being 
Monks,    w^ere    sworn   to   a   vow   of   Poverty;   the   modern 


118  Seleetio7is  from   Carlyle. 

Authors  had  no  need  to  swear  to  it.  This  was  the  epoch 
when  an  Otway  coukl  still  die  of  hunger ;  not  to  speak 
of  your  innumerable  Scrog'ginses,  whom  'the  Muse  found 
stretched  beneath  a  rug/  with  'rusty  grate  unconscious  of 
a  lire/  stocking-nightcap,  sanded  floor,  and  all  the  other 
escutcheons  of  the  craft,  time  out  of  mind  the  heirlooms  of 
Authorship.  Scroggins,  however,  seems  to  have  been  but 
an  idler ;  not  at  all  so  diligent  as  worthy  Mr.  Boyce,  whom 
we  might  have  seen  sitting-up  in  bed,  with  his  wearing- 
apparel  of  Blanket  about  him,  and  a  hole  slit  in  the  same,  that 
his  hand  might  be  at  liberty  to  work  in  its  vocation.  The 
worst  was,  that  too  frequently  a  blackguard  recklessness  of 
temper  ensued,  incapable  of  turning  to  account  what  good 
the  gods  even  here  had  provided :  your  Boyces  acted  on  some 
stoico-epicurean  principle  of  carpe  diem,  as  men  do  in  bom- 
barded towns,  and  seasons  of  raging  pestilence  ;  —  and  so  had 
lost  not  only  their  life,  and  presence  of  mind,  but  their  status 
as  persons  of  respectability.  The  trade  of  Author  was  at 
about  one  of  its  lowest  ebbs  when  Johnson  embarked  on  it. 
Accordingly  we  find  no  mention  of  Illuminations  in  the 
city  of  London,  when  this  same  Ruler  of  the  British  Nation 
arrived  in  it:  no  cannon-salvos  are  fired;  no  flourish  of 
drums  and  trumpets  greets  his  appearance  on  the  scene. 
He  enters  quite  quietly,  with  some  copper  halfpence  in  his 
pocket ;  creeps  into  lodgings  in  Exeter  Street,  Strand ;  and 
has  a  Coronation  Pontiff  also,  of  not  less  peculiar  equipment, 
whom,  with  all  submissiveness,  he  must  wait  upon  in  his 
Vatican  of  St.  John's  Gate.  This  is  the  dull  oily  Printer 
alluded  to  above. 

'Cave's  temper,'  says  our  Knight  Hawkins,  'was  phlegmatic: 
though  he  assumed,  as  the  publisher  of  the  Magazine,  the  name  of 
Sylvanus  Urban,  he  had  few  of  those  qualities  that  constitute  urbanity. 
Judge  of  his  want  of  them  by  this  question,  which  he  once  put  to  an 

author:  "Mr. ,  I  hear  you  have  just  published  a  pamphlet,  and 

am  told  there  is  a  very  good  paragraph  in  it  upon  the  subject  of  music : 
did  you  write  that  yourself  ?  "     His  discernment  was  also  slow  ;  and  as 


BosivelVs  Life  of  Johnson.  119 

lie  had  already  at  his  command  some  writers  of  prose  and  verse,  who, 
in  the  language  of  Booksellers,  are  called  good  hands,  he  was  the 
backwarder  in  making  advances,  or  courting  an  intimacy  with  John- 
son. Upon  the  first  approach  of  a  stranger,  his  practice  was  to  con- 
tinue sitting  ;  a  posture  in  which  he  was  ever  to  be  found,  and  for  a 
few  minutes  to  continue  silent :  if  at  any  time  he  was  inclined  to  be- 
gin the  discourse,  it  was  generally  by  putting  a  leaf  of  the  Magazine, 
then  in  the  press,  into  the  hand  of  his  visitor,  and  asking  his  opinion 
of  it.        *        *        * 

He  was  so  incompetent  a  judge  of  Johnson's  abilities,  that,  mean- 
ing at  one  time  to  dazzle  him  with  the  splendor  of  some  of  those 
luminaries  in  Literature  who  favored  him  with  their  correspondence, 
he  told  him  that  if  he  would,  in  the  evening,  be  at  a  certain  alehouse 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Clerkenwell,  he  might  have  a  chance  of  see- 
ing Mr.  Browne  and  another  or  two  of  those  illustrious  contributors  : 
Johnson  accepted  the  invitation;  and  being  introduced  by  Cave, 
dressed  in  a  loose  horseman's  coat,  and  such  a  great  bushy  wig  as  he 
constantly  wore,  to  the  sight  of  Mr.  Browne,  whom  he  found  sitting 
at  the  upper  end  of  a  long  table  in  a  cloud  of  tobacco-smoke,  had 
his  curiosity  gratified.'  * 

In  fact,  if  we  look  seriously  into  the  condition  of  Author- 
ship at  that  period,  we  shall  find  that  Johnson  had  under- 
taken one  of  the  ruggedest  of  all  possible  enterprises ;  that 
here  as  elsewhere  Fortune  had  given  him  unspeakable  Con- 
tradictions to  reconcile.  For  a  man  of  Johnson's  stamp, 
the  Problem  was  twofokl:  First,  not  only  as  the  humble 
but  indispensable  condition  of  all  else,  to  keep  himself,  if 
so  might  be,  alive;  but  secondly,  to  keep  himself  alive  by 
speaking  forth  the  Truth  that  was  in  him,  and  speaking  it 
truly,  that  is,  in  the  clearest  and  fittest  utterance  the  Heav- 
ens had  enabled  him  to  give  it,  let  the  Earth  say  to  this 
what  she  liked.  Of  which  twofold  Problem  if  it  be  hard  to 
solve  either  member  separately,  how  incalculably  more  so 
to  solve  it,  when  both  are  conjoined,  and  work  -with  end- 
less complication  into  one  another !  He  that  finds  himself 
already  l^ept   alive   can   sometimes  (unhappily  not  always) 

*  Hawkins,  pp.  46-50. 


120  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

speak  a  little  truth ;  he  that  finds  himself  able  and  willing, 
to  all  lengths,  to  speak  lies,  may,  by  watching  how  the  wind 
sits,  scrape  together  a  livelihood,  sometimes  of  great  splen- 
dor :  he,  again,  who  finds  himself  provided  with  neither  en- 
dowment, has  but  a  ticklish  game  to  play,  and  shall  have 
praises  if  he  win  it.  Let  us  look  a  little  at  both  faces  of  the 
matter ;  and  see  what  front  they  then  offered^  our  Advent- 
urer, what  front  he  offered  them. 

At  the  time  of  Johnson's  appearance  on  the  field.  Litera- 
ture, in  many  senses,  was  in  a  transitional  state ;  chiefly  in 
this  sense,  as  respects  the  pecuniary  subsistence  of  its  culti- 
vators. It  was  in  the  very  act  of  passing  from  the  protec- 
tion of  Patrons  into  that  of  the  Public ;  no  longer  to  supply 
its  necessities  by  laudatory  Dedications  to  the  Great,  but 
by  judicious  Bargains  with  the  Booksellers.  This  happy 
change  has  been  much  sung  and  celebrated ;  many  a  '  lord 
of  the  lion  heart  and  eagle  eye'  looking  back  with  scorn 
enough  on  the  bygone  system  of  Dependency :  so  that  now 
it  were  perhaps  well  to  consider,  for  a  moment,  what  good 
might  also  be  in  it,  what  gratitude  we  owe  it.  That  a  good 
was  in  it,  admits  not  of  doubt.  Whatsoever  has  existed 
has  had  its  value :  without  some  truth  and  worth  lying  in 
it,  the  thing  could  not  have  hung  together,  and  been  the 
organ  and  sustenance,  and  method  of  action,  for  men  that 
reasoned  and  were  alive.  Translate  a  Falsehood  which  is 
wholly  false  into  Practice,  the  result  comes  out  zero;  there 
is  no  fruit  or  issue  to  be  derived  from  it.  That  in  an  age 
when  a  Nobleman  was  still  noble,  still  with  his  wealth  the 
protector  of  worthy  and  humane  things,  and  still  venerated 
as  such,  a  poor  Man  of  Genius,  his  brother  in  nobleness, 
should,  with  unfeigned  reverence,  address  him  and  say :  "  I 
have  found  Wisdom  here,  and  would  fain  proclaim  it  abroad ; 
wilt  thou,  of  thy  abundance,  afford  me  the  means  ?  "  —  in 
all  this  there  was  no  baseness ;  it  was  wholly  an  honest 
proposal,  which  a  free  man  might  make,  and  a   free  man 


BoswelVs  Life  of  Johnson.  121 

listen  to.  So  miglit  a  Tasso,  with  a  Gerusalemme  in  his 
hand  or  in  his  head,  speak  to  a  Duke  of  Ferrara ;  so  might 
a  Shakspeare  to  his  Southampton;  and  Continental  Art- 
ists generally  to  their  rich  Protectors,  —  in  some  countries, 
down  almost  to  these  days.  It  was  only  when  the  reverence 
became  feigned  that  baseness  entered  into  the  transaction 
on  both  sides ;  and,  indeed,  flourished  there  mtli  rapid 
luxuriance,  till  th'at  became  disgraceful  for  a  Dryden,  which 
a  Shakspeare  could  once  practise  without  offence. 

Neither,  it  is  very  true,  was  the  new  way  of  Bookseller 
Msecenasship  w^orthless  ;  which  opened  itself  at  this  junc- 
ture, for  the  most  important  of  all  transport-trades,  now 
when  the  old  way  had  become  too  miry  and  impassable. 
Eemark,  moreover,  how  this  second  sort  of  Msecenasship, 
after  carrying  us  through  nearly  a  century  of  Literary  Time, 
appears  now  to  have  wellnigh  discharged  its  function  also ; 
and  to  be  working  pretty  rapidly  toward  some  third  method, 
the  exact  conditions  of  which  are  yet  nowise  visible.  Thus 
all  things  have  their  end  ;  and  we  should  part  Avitli  them  all, 
not  in  anger,  but  in  peace.  The  Bookseller-System,  during 
its  peculiar  century,  the  whole  of  the  eighteenth,  did  carry 
us  handsomely  along,  and  many  good  Works  it  has  left  us ; 
and  many  good  Men  it  maintained  :  if  it  is  now  expiring  by 
Puffery,  as  the  Patronage-System  did  by  Flattery  (for 
Lying  is  ever  the  forerunner  of  Death,  nay  is  itself  Death), 
let  us  not  forget  its  benefits;  how  it  nursed  Literature 
through  boyhood  and  school-years,  as  Patronage  had 
wrapped  it  in  soft  swaddling-bands  ;  —  till  now  we  see  it 
about  to  i3ut  on  the  toga  virilis,  could  it  but  find  any  such ! 

There  is  tolerable  traveling  on  the  beaten  road,  run  how 
it  may ;  only  on  the  new  road  not  yet  leveled  and  paved, 
and  on  the  old  road  all  broken  into  ruts  and  quagmires, 
is  the  traveling  bad  or  impracticable.  The  difficulty  lies 
always  in  the  transition  from  one  method  to  another.  In 
which  state  it  was  that  Johnson  now  found  Literature ;  and 


122  Selections  ,/Vom   Caj^lyle. 

out  of  which,  let  us  also  say,  he  manfully  carried  it.  What 
remarkable  mortal  first  paid  copyright  in  England  Ave  have 
not  ascertained ;  perhaps,  for  almost  a  century  before,  some 
scarce  visible  or  ponderable  pittance  of  wages  had  occasion- 
ally been  yielded  by  the  Seller  of  Books  to  the  Writer  of 
them :  the  original  Covenant,  stipulating  to  produce  Para- 
dise Lost  on  the  one  hand,  and  Five  Pounds  Sterling  on  the 
other,  still  lies  (we  have  been  told)  in  black-on-white,  for 
inspection  and  purchase  by  the  curious,  at  a  Bookshop  in 
Chancery-Lane.  Thus  had  the  matter  gone  on,  in  a  mixed 
confused  way,  for  some  threescore  years  ;  —  as  ever,  in  such 
things,  the  old  system  overlaps  the  new,  by  some  generation 
or  two,  and  only  dies  quite  out  when  the  new  has  got  a  com- 
plete organization  and  weather-worthy  surface  of  its  own. 
Among  the  first  Authors,  the  very  first  of  any  significance, 
who  lived  by  the  day's  wages  of  his  craft,  and  composedly 
faced  the  world  on  that  basis,  was  Samuel  Johnson. 

At  the  time  of  Johnson's  appearance  there  were  still  two 
ways  on  which  an  Author  might  attempt  proceeding :  there 
were  the  Maecenases  proper  in  the  West  End  of  London; 
and  the  Msecenases  virtual  of  St.  John's  Gate  and  Pater- 
noster Row.  To  a  considerate  man  it  might  seem  uncer- 
tain which  method  Avere  preferable  :  neither  had  very  high 
attractions ;  the  Patron's  aid  was  now  Avellnigh  necessarily 
polluted  by  sycophancy,  before  it  could  come  to  hand ;  the 
Bookseller's  Avas  deformed  Avith  greedy  stupidity,  not  to  say 
entire  wooden-headedness  and  disgust  (so  that  an  Osborne 
even  required  to  be  knocked  doAvn,  by  an  author  of  spirit), 
and  could  barely  keep  the  thread  of  life  together.  The  one 
was  the  Avages  of  suffering  and  poverty ;  the  other,  unless 
you  gave  strict  heed  to  it,  the  Avages  of  sin.  In  time,  John- 
son had  opportunity  of  looking  into  both  methods,  and 
ascertaining  AAdiat  they  Avere  ;  but  found,  at  first  trial,  that 
the  former  Avould  in  noAvise  do  for  him.  Listen,  once  again, 
to  that  far-famed  Blast  of  Doom,  proclaiming  into  the  ear  of 


BoswelVs  Life  of  Johnson.  123 

Lord  Chesterfield,  and,  through  him,  of  the  listening  world, 
that  patronage  should  be  no  more  ! 

'  Seven  years,  my  Lord,  have  novsr  passed,  since  I  waited  in  your 
outward  rooms,  or  was  repulsed  from  your  door  ;  during  which  time 
I  have  been  pushing  on  my  Work*  through  difficulties  of  which  it  is 
useless  to  complain,  and  have  brought  it  at  last  to  the  verge  of  publi- 
cation, without  one  act  of  assistance, t  one  word  of  encouragement,  or 
one  smile  of  favor. 

The  shepherd  in  Virgil  grew  at  last  acquainted  with  Love,  and  found 
him  a  native  of  the  rocks. 

Is  not  a  Patron,  my  Lord,  one  who  looks  with  unconcern  on  a  man 
struggling  for  life  in  the  water,  and,  when  he  has  reached  ground, 
encumbers  him  with  help  ?  The  notice  which  you  have  been  pleased 
to  take  of  my  labors,  had  it  been  early,  had  been  kind :  but  it  has  been 
delayed  till  I  am  indifferent  and  cannot  enjoy  it ;  till  I  am  solitary  and 
cannot  impart  it ;  till  I  am  known  and  do  not  want  it.  I  hope  it  is  no 
very  cynical  asperity,  not  to  confess  obligations  where  no  benefit  has 
been  received ;  or  to  be  unwilling  that  the  public  should  consider  me 
as  owing  that  to  a  patron  which  Providence  has  enabled  me  to  do  for 
myself. 

Having  carried  on  my  Work  thus  far  with  so  little  obligation  to  any 
favorer  of  learning,  I  shall  not  be  disappointed  though  I  should  con- 
clude it,  if  less  be  possible,  with  less :  for  I  have  long  been  awakened 
from  that  dream  of  hope,  in  which  I  once  boasted  myself  with  so  much 
exultation, 

My  Lord,  your  Lordship's  most  humble,  most  obedient  servant, 

Sam.  Johnson. 

And  thus  must  the  rebellious  ^  Sam.  Johnson '  turn  him  to 
the  Bookselling  guild,  and  the  wondrous  chaos  of  ^Author 
by  trade ; '    and,  though  ushered  into  it  only  by  that  dull 

*  The  English  Dictionary. 

t  Were  time  and  printer's  space  of  no  value,  it  were  easy  to  wash  away 
certain  foolish  soot-stains  dropped  here  as  '  Notes ; '  especially  two :  the 
one  on  this  word,  and  on  Boswell's  Note  to  it ;  the  other  on  the  para- 
graph which  follows.  Let  'Ed.'  look  a  second  time;  he  will  find  that 
Johnson's  sacred  regard  for  Truth  is  the  only  thing  to  be  '  noted  '  in  the 
former  case;  also,  in  the  latter,  that  this  of  '  Love's  being  a  native  of  the 
rocks  '  actually  has  a  '  meaning.' 


124  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

oily  Printer,  ^  with  loose  horseman's  coat  and  such  a  great 
bushy  wig  as  he  constantly  wore/  and  only  as  subaltern  to 
some  commanding-officer  'Browne,  sitting  amid  tobacco- 
smoke  at  the  head  of  a  long  table  in  the  alehouse  at  Cler- 
kenwell/  — gird  himself  together  for  t^ie  warfare;  having 
no  alternative ! 

Little  less  contradictory  was  that  other  branch  of  the 
twofold  Problem  now  set  before  Johnson:  the  speaking 
forth  of  Truth.  Nay,  taken  by  itself,  it  had  in  those  days 
become  so  complex  as  to  puzzle  strongest  heads,  with  noth- 
ing else  imposed  on  them  for  solution;  and  even  to  turn 
high  heads  of  that  sort  into  mere  hollow  vizards,  speak- 
ing neither  truth  nor  falsehood,  nor  anything  but  what  the 
Prompter  and  Player  (vTroKpiTrjs:)  put  into  them.  Alas !  for 
poor  Johnson  Contradiction  abounded ;  in  spirituals  and  in 
temporals,  within  and  without.  Born  with  the  strongest 
unconquerable  love  of  just  Insight,  he  must  begin  to  live 
and  learn  in  a  scene  where  Prejudice  flourishes  with  rank 
luxuriance.  England  was  all  confused  enough,  sightless 
and  yet  restless,  take  it  where  you  would;  but  figure  the 
best  intellect  in  England  nursed  up.  to  manhood  in  the  idol- 
cavern  of  a  poor  Tradesman's  house,  in  the  cathedral  city  of 
Lichfield!  '  What  is  Truth  ?  '  said  jesting  Pilate.  'What 
is  Truth  ? '  might  earnest  Johnson  much  more  emphatically 
say.  Truth,  no  longer,  like  the  Phoenix,  in  rainbow  plum- 
age, poured  from  her  glittering  beak  such  tones  of  sweetest 
melody  as  took  captive  every  ear:  the  Phoenix  (waxing  old) 
had  wellnigh  ceased  her  singing;  and  empty  wearisome 
Cuckoos,  and  doleful  monotonous  Owls,  innumerable  Jays 
also,  and  twittering  Sparrows  on  the  housetop,  pretended 
they  were  repeating  her. 

It  was  wholly  a  divided  age,  that  of  Johnson;  Unity 
existed  nowhere,  in  its  Heaven,  or  in  its  Earth.  Society, 
through  every  fibre,  was  rent  asunder:  all  things,  it  was 
then   becoming  visible,  but  could  not  then  be  understood, 


BoswelVs  Life  of  Johnson.  125 

were  moving  onwards,  with  an  impulse  received  ages  before, 
yet  now  first  with  a  decisive  rapidity,  towards  that  great 
chaotic  gulf,  where,  whether  in  the  shape  of  French  Eevoki- 
tions,  Keform  Bills,  or  what  shape  soever,  bloody  or  blood- 
less, the  descent  and  engulfment  assume,  we  now  see  them 
weltering  and  boiling.  Already  Cant,  as  once  before  hinted, 
had  begun  to  play  its  wonderful  part,  for  the  hour  was  come : 
two  ghastly  Apparitions,  unreal  simulacra  both.  Hypocrisy 
and  Atheism,  are  already,  in  silence,  parting  the  world. 
Opinion  and  Action,  which  should  live  together  as  wedded 
pair,  '  one  flesh, '  more  properly  as  Soul  and  Body,  have 
commenced  their  open  quarrel,  and  are  suing  for  a  separate 
maintenance,  —  as  if  they  could  exist  separately.  To  the 
earnest  mind,  in  any  position,  firm  footing  and  a  life  of 
Truth  was  becoming  daily  more  difficult :  in  Johnson's  posi- 
tion it  was  more  difficult  than  in  almost  any  other. 

If,  as  for  a  devout  nature  was  inevitable  and  indispen- 
sable, he  looked  up  to  Religion,  as  to  the  polestar  of  his 
voyage,  already  there  was  no  fixed  polestar  any  longer  visi- 
ble ;  but  two  stars,  a  whole  constellation  of  stars,  each  pro- 
claiming itself  as  the  true.  There  was  the  red  portentous 
comet-star  of  Infidelity ;  the  dim  fixed-star,  burning  ever 
dimmer,  uncertain  now  whether  not  an  atmospheric  meteor, 
of  Orthodoxy :  which  of  these  to  choose  ?  The  keener 
intellects  of  Europe  had,  almost  without  exception,  ranged 
themselves  under  the  former :  for  some  half  century,  it  had 
been  the  general  effort  of  European  speculation  to  proclaim 
that  Destruction  of  Falsehood  was  the  only  Truth;  daily 
had  Denial  waxed  stronger  and  stronger.  Belief  sunk  more 
and  more  into  decay.  From  our  Bolingbrokes  and  Tolands 
the  sceptical  fever  had  passed  into  France,  into  Scotland; 
and  already  it  smouldered,  far  and  wide,  secretly  eating  out 
the  heart  of  England.  Bayle  had  played  his  part ;  Voltaire, 
on  a  wider  theatre,  was  playing  his,  —  Johnson's  senior  by 
some    fifteen    years :    Hume    and   Johnson   were    children 


1 26  Selection s  from    Carlyle . 

almost  of  the  same  year.*  To  this  keener  order  of  intel- 
lects did  Johnson's  indisputably  belong:  was  he  to  join 
them ;  was  he  to  oppose  them  ?  A  complicated  question : 
for,  alas,  the  Church  itself  is  no  longer,  even  to  him,  wholly 
of  true  adamant,  but  of  adamant  and  baked  mud  conjoined : 
the  zealously  Devout  has  to  find  his  Church  tottering ;  and 
pause  amazed  to  see,  instead  of  inspired  Priest,  many  a 
swine-feeding  Trulliber  ministering  at  her  altar.  ^  It  is  not 
the  least  curious  of  the  incoherences  which  Johnson  had  to 
reconcile,  that,  though  by  nature  contemptuous  and  incredu- 
lous, he  was,  at  that  time  of  day,  to  find  his  safety  and  glory 
in  defending,  with  his  whole  might,  the  traditions  of  the 
elders. 

Not  less  perplexingly  intricate,  and  on  both  sides  hollow 
or  questionable,  was  the  aspect  of  Politics.  Whigs  strug- 
gling blindly  forward,  Tories  holding  blindly  back ;  each 
with  some  forecast  of  a  half  truth ;  neither  with  any  fore- 
cast of  the  whole  !  Admire  here  this  other  Contradiction  in 
the  life  of  Johnson;  that,  though  the  most  ungovernable, 
and  in  practice  the  most  independent  of  men,  he  must  be  a 
Jacobite  and  worshiper  of  the  Divine  Right.  In  politics 
also  there  are  Irreconcilables  enough  for  him.  As,  indeed, 
how  could  it  be  otherwise  ?  For  when  Religion  is  torn  asun- 
der, and  the  very  heart  of  man's  existence  set  against  itself, 
then  in  all  subordinate  departments  there  must  needs  be 
hollowness,  incoherence.  The  English  Nation  had  rebelled 
against  a  Tyrant;  and,  by  the  hands  of  religious  tyranni- 
cides, exacted  stern  vengeance  of  him :  Democracy  had  risen 
iron-sinewed,  and,  'like  an  infant  Hercules,  strangled  ser- 
pents in  its  cradle.'  But  as  yet  none  knew  the  meaning  or 
extent  of  the  phenomenon :  Europe  was  not  ripe  for  it ;  not 
to  be  ripened  for  it  but  by  the  culture  and  various  experi- 
ence of  another  century  and  a  half.  And  now,  when  the 
King-killers   were   all    swept   away,    and   a   milder   second 

*  Jolmsou,  September  1709  ;  Hume,  April  1711. 


BoswelVs  Life  of  Johnson.  127 

picture  was  painted  over  the  canvas  of  the  Jirst,  and  betitled 
'Glorious  Eevolution/  who  doubted  but  the  catastrophe  was 
over,  the  whole  business  finished,  and  Democracy  gone  to  its 
long  sleep?  Yet  was  it  like  a  business  finished  and  not 
finished ;  a  lingering  uneasiness  dwelt  in  all  minds :  the 
deep-lying,  resistless  Tendency,  which  had  still  to  be  obeyed, 
could  no  longer  be  recognized;  thus  was  the  halfness,  insin- 
cerity, uncertainty  in  men's  ways ;  instead  of  heroic  Puritans 
and  heroic  Cavaliers,  came  now  a  daw^lling  set  of  argumen- 
tative Whigs,  and  a  dawdling  set  of  deaf-eared  Tories ;  each 
half-foolish,  each  half-false.  The  Whigs  were  false  and 
without  basis ;  inasmuch  as  their  wdiole  object  was  Eesist- 
ance,  Criticism,  Demolition,  — they  knew  not  why,  or  towards 
what  issue.  In  Whiggism,  ever  since  a  Charles  and  his 
Jeffries  had  ceased  to  meddle  with  it,  and  to  have  any  Eus- 
sell  or  Sydney  to  meddle  with,  there  could  be  no  divineness 
of  character ;  not  till,  in  these  latter  days,  it  took  the  figure  of 
a  thorough-going,  all-defying  Eadicalism,  was  there  any  solid 
footing  for  it  to  stand  on.  Of  the  like  uncertain,  half-hol- 
low nature  had  Toryism  become,  in  Johnson's  time ;  preach- 
ing forth  indeed  an  everlasting  truth,  the  duty  of  Loyalty ; 
yet  now,  ever  since  the  final  expulsion  of  the  Stuarts,  having 
no  Person,  but  only  an  Office  to  be  loyal  to ;  no  living  Soul 
to  worship,  but  only  a  dead  velvet-cushioned  Chair.  Its 
attitude,  therefore,  was  stiff-necked  refusal  to  move ;  as  that 
of  Whiggism  was  clamorous  command  to  move,  —  let  rhyme 
and  reason,  on  both  hands,  say  to  it  what  they  might.  The 
consequence  was:  Immeasurable  floods  of  contentious  jargon, 
tending  nowhither;  false  conviction;  false  resistance  to  con- 
viction ;  decay  (ultimately  to  become  decease)  of  whatsoever 
was  once  understood  by  the  words,  Principle,  or  Honesty  of 
heart ;  the  louder  and  louder  triumph  of  Hcdfness  and  Plau- 
sibility over  Wholeness  and  Truth ;  —  at  last,  this  all-over- 
shadowing efflorescence  of  Quackery,  which  we  now  see, 
with  all  its  deadening  and  killing  fruits,  in  all  its  innumer- 


128  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

able  branches,  down  to  the  lowest.  How,  between  these 
jarring  extremes,  wherein  the  rotten  lay  so  inextricably 
intermingled  with  the  sound,  and  as  yet  no  eye  could  see 
through  the  ulterior  meaning  of  the  matter,  was  a  faithful 
and  true  man  to  adjust  himself  ? 

That  Johnson,  in  spite  of  all  drawbacks,  adopted  the 
Conservative  side ;  stationed  himself  as  the  unyielding 
opponent  of  Innovation,  resolute  to  hold  fast  the  form  of 
sound  words,  could  not  but  increase,  in  no  small  measure, 
the  difficulties  he  had  to  strive  with.  We  mean,  the  moral 
difficulties ;  for  in  economical  respects,  it  might  be  pretty 
equally  balanced ;  the  Tory  servant  of  the  Public  had  per- 
haps about  the  same  chance  of  promotion  as  the  Whig :  and 
all  the  promotion  Johnson  aimed  at  was  the  privilege  to  live. 
But  for  what,  though  unavowed,  was  no  less  indispensable, 
for  his  peace  of  conscience,  and  the  clear  ascertainment  and 
feeling  of  his  Duty  as  an  inhabitant  of  God's  world,  the 
case  was  hereby  rendered  much  more  complex.  To  resist 
Innovation  is  easy  enough  on  one  condition :  that  you  resist 
Inquiry.  This  is,  and  was,  the  common  expedient  of  your 
common  Conservatives ;  but  it  would  not  do  for  Johnson :  he 
was  a  zealous  recommender  and  practiser  of  Inquiry ;  once 
for  all,  could  not  and  would  not  believe,  much  less  speak  and 
act,  a  Falsehood:  the /orm  of  sound  words,  which  he  held 
fast,  must  have  a  meaning  in  it.  Here  lay  the  difficulty :  to 
behold  a  portentous  mixture  of  True  and  False,  and  feel  that 
he  must  dwell  and  fight  there ;  yet  to  love  and  defend  only 
the  True.  How  worship,  when  you  cannot  and  will  not  be 
an  idolater ;  yet  cannot  help  discerning  that  the  Symbol  of 
your  Divinity  has  half  become  idolatrous  ?  This  was  the 
question  which  Johnson,  the  man  both  of  clear  eye  and 
devout  believing  heart,  must  answer,  —  at  peril  of  his  life. 
The  Whig  or  Sceptic,  on  the  other  hand,  had  a  much  simpler 
part  to  play.  To  him  only  the  idolatrous  side  of  things, 
nowise  the  divine  one,  lay  visible :  not  ivorshijy,  therefore. 


BosivelVs  Life  of  Johnson.  129 

nay,  in  the  strict  sense  not  heart-honesty,  only  at  most  lip- 
ancl  hand-honesty,  is  required  of  him.  What  spiritual  force 
is  his,  he  can  conscientiously  employ  in  the  work  of  cavil- 
ing, of  pulling-down  what  is  False.  For  the  rest,  that  there 
is  or  can  be  any  Truth  of  a  higher  than  sensual  nature,  has 
not  occurred  to  him.  The  utmost,  therefore,  that  he  as  man 
has  to  aim  at,  is  Respectability,  the  suffrages  of  his  fellow- 
men.  Such  suffrages  he  may  weigh  as  well  as  count;  or 
count  only :  according  as  he  is  a  Burke  or  a  Wilkes.  But 
beyond  these  there  lies  nothing  divine  for  him ;  these 
attained,  all  is  attained.  Thus  is  his  whole  world  distinct 
and  rounded-in :  a  clear  goal  is  set  before  him ;  a  firm  path, 
rougher  or  smoother  ;  at  worst,  a  firm  region  wherein  to  seek 
a  path:  let  him  gird-up  his  loins,  and  travel  on  without 
misgivings!  For  the  honest  Conservative,  again,  nothing  is 
distinct,  nothing  rounded-in:  Kespectability  can  nowise 
be  his  highest  Godhead ;  not  one  aim,  but  two  conflicting  aims 
to  be  continually  reconciled  by  him,  has  he  to  strive  after. 
A  difficult  position,  as  we  said ;  which  accordingly  the  most 
did,  even  in  those  days,  but  half  defend :  by  the  surrender, 
namely,  of  their  own  too  cumbersome  honesty,  or  even  under- 
standing;  after  which  the  completest  defence  was  worth 
little.  Into  this  difficult  x^osition  Johnson,  nevertheless, 
threw  himself :  found  it  indeed  full  of  difficulties  ;  yet  held 
it  out  manfully,  as  an  honest-hearted,  open-sighted  man, 
while  life  was  in  him. 

Such  was  that  same  '  twofold  Problem '  set  before  Samuel 
Johnson.  Consider  all  these  moral  difficulties ;  and  add 
to  them  the  fearful  aggravation,  which  lay  in  that  other 
circumstance,  that  he  needed  a  continual  appeal  to  the  Pub- 
lic, must  continually  produce  a  certain  impression  and  con- 
viction on  the  Public ;  that,  if  he  did  not,  he  ceased  to  have 
^  provision  for  the  day  that  was  passing  over  him,'  he  could 
not  any  longer  live  !  How  a  vulgar  character,  once  launched 
into  this  wild  element ;  driven  onwards  by  Fear  and  Famine  ; 


130  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

without  other  aim  than  to  clutch  what  Provender  (of  Enjoy- 
ment in  any  kind)  he  coukl  get,  always  if  possible  keeping 
quite  clear  of  the  Gallows  and  Pillory,  that  is  to  say,  mind- 
ing heedf ully  both  '  person '  and  '  character,'  —  would  have 
floated  hither  and  thither  in  it ;  and  contrived  to  eat  some 
three  repasts  daily,  and  wear  some  three  suits  yearly,  and 
then  to  depart  and  disappear,  having  consumed  his  last 
ration :  all  this  might  be  worth  knowing,  but  were  in  itself 
a  trivial  knowledge.  How  a  noble  man,  resolute  for  the 
Truth,  to  whom  Shams  and  Lies  were  once  for  all  an  abomi- 
nation, was  to  act  in  it :  here  lay  the  mystery.  By  what 
methods,  by  what  gifts  of  eye  and  hand,  does  a  heroic 
Samuel  Johnson,  now  when  cast  forth  into  that  waste  Chaos 
of  Authorship,  maddest  of  things,  a  mingled  Phlegethon  and 
Fleetditch,  with  its  floating  lumber,  and  sea-krakens,  and 
mud-spectres,  —  shape  himself  a  voyage;  of  the  transient 
driftwood,  and  the  enduring  iron,  build  him  a  sea-worthy 
Life-boat,  and  sail  therein,  undrowned,  unpolluted,  through 
the  roaring  'mother  of  dead  dogs,'  onwards  to  an  eternal 
Landmark,  and  City  that  hath  foundations  ?  This  high 
question  is  even  the  one  answered  in  Boswell's  Book  ;  which 
Book  we  therefore,  not  so  falsely,  have  named  a  Heroic  Poem; 
for  in  it  there  lies  the  whole  argument  of  such.  Glory  to 
our  brave  Samuel !  He  accomplished  this  wonderful  Prob- 
lem; and  now  through  long  generations  we  point  to  him, 
and  say :  '  Here  also  was  a  Man ;  let  the  world  once  more 
have  assurance  of  a  Man  ! ' 

Had  there  been  in  Johnson,  now  when  afloat  on  that  con- 
fusion worse  confounded  of  grandeur  and  squalor,  no  light 
but  an  earthly  outward  one,  he  too  must  have  made  ship- 
wreck. With  his  diseased  body,  and  vehement  voracious 
heart,  how  easy  for  him  to  become  a  carpe-diem  Philosopher, 
like  the  rest,  and  live  and  die  as  miserably  as  any  Boyce  of 
that  Brotherhood !  But  happily  there  was  a  higher  light 
for  him ;  shining  as  a  lamp  to  his  path ;  which,  in  all  paths. 


BosivelVs  Life  of  Johison.  131 

would  teach  him  to  act  and  walk  not  as  a  fool,  but  as  wise, 
and  in  those  evil  days  too,  'redeeming  the  t'.me.'  Under 
dimmer  or  clearer  manifestations,  a  Truth  had  been  revealed 
to  him :  '  I  also  am  a  Man ;  even  in  this  unutterable  element 
of  Authorship,  I  may  live  as  beseems  a  Man  ! '  That  Wrong- 
is  not  only  different  from  Right,  but  that  it  is  in  strict  scien- 
tific terms  infinitely  different;  even  as  the  gaining  of  the 
whole  world  set  against  the  losing  of  one's  own  soul,  or  (as 
Johnson  had  it)  a  Heaven  set  against  a  Hell ;  that  in  all 
situations  out  of  the  Pit  of  Tophet,  wherein  a  living  Man 
has  stood  or  can  stand,  there  is  actually  a  Prize  of  quite 
infinite  value  placed  within  his  reach,  namely  a  Duty  for 
him  to  do :  this  highest  Gospel,  which  forms  the  basis  and 
worth  of  all  other  Gospels  whatsoever,  had  been  revealed  to 
Samuel  Johnson ;  and  the  man  had  believed  it,  and  laid  it 
faithfully  to  heart.  Such  knowledge  of  the  transcendental, 
immeasurable  character  of  Duty  we  call  the  basis  of  all 
Gospels,  the  essence  of  all  Eeligion :  he  who  with  his  whole 
soul  knows  not  this,  as  yet  knows  nothing,  as  yet  is  prop- 
erly nothing. 

This,  happily  for  him,  Johnson  was  one  of  those  that 
knew:  under  a  certain  authentic  Symbol  it  stood  forever 
present  to  his  eyes :  a  Symbol,  indeed,  waxing  old  as  doth  a 
garment;  yet  which  had  guided  forward,  as  their  Banner 
and  celestial  Pillar  of  Fire,  innumerable  saints  and  wit- 
nesses, the  fathers  of  our  modern  world;  and  for  him  also 
had  still  a  sacred  significance.  It  does  not  appear  that  at 
any  time  Johnson  was  what  we  call  irreligious :  but  in  his 
sorrows  and  isolation,  when  hope  died  away,  and  only  a 
long  vista  of  suffering  and  toil  lay  before  him  to  the  end, 
then  first  did  Eeligion  shine  forth  in  its  meek,  everlasting 
clearness ;  even  as  the  stars  do  in  black  night,  which  in  the 
daytime  and  dusk  Avere  hidden  by  inferior  lights.  How  a 
true  man,  in  the  midst  of  errors  and  uncertainties,  shall 
work  out  for  himself  a  sure  Life-truth:  and,  adjusting  the 


132  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

transient  to  the  eternal,  amid  the  fragments  of  ruined 
Temples  build  u"j)  Avith  toil  and  pain  a  little  Altar  for  him- 
self, and  worship  there ;  how  Samuel  Johnson,  in  the  era 
of  Voltaire,  can  purify  and  fortify  his  soul,  and  hold  real 
communion  with  the  Highest,  '  in  the  Church  of  St.  Clement 
Danes : '  this  too  stands  all  unfolded  in  his  Biography,  and 
is  among  the  most  touching  and  memorable  things  there ; 
a  thing  to  be  looked  at  with  pity,  admiration,  awe.  John- 
son's Heligion  was  as  the  light  of  life  to  him;  without  it 
his  heart  was  all  sick,  dark,  and  had  no  guidance  left. 

He  is  now  enlisted,  or  impressed,  into  that  unspeakable 
shoeblack-seraph  Army  of  Authors;  but  can  feel  hereby 
that  he  lights  under  a  celestial  flag,  and  will  quit  him  like  a 
man.  The  first  grand  requisite,  an  assured  heart,  he  there- 
fore has :  what  his  outward  equipments  and  accoutrements 
are,  is  the  next  question ;  an  important  though  inferior  one. 
His  intellectual  stock,  intrinsically  viewed,  is  perhaps  incon- 
siderable ;  the  furnishings  of  an  English  School  and  Eng- 
lish University ;  good  knowledge  of  the  Latin  tongue,  a  more 
uncertain  one  of  Greek  :  this  is  a  rather  slender  stock  of  Edu- 
cation wherewith  to  front  the  world.  But  then  it  is  to  be 
remembered  that  his  world  was  England ;  that  such  was  the 
culture  England  commonly  supplied  and  expected.  Besides, 
Johnson  has  been  a  voracious  reader,  though  a  desultory 
one,  and  oftenest  in  strange,  scholastic,  too  obsolete  Libra- 
ries ;  he  has  also  rubbed  shoulders  with  the  press  of  Actual 
Life  for  some  thirty  years  now :  views  or  hallucinations  of 
innumerable  things  are  weltering  to  and  fro  in  him.  Above 
all,  be  his  weapons  what  they  may,  he  has  an  arm  that  can 
wield  them.  Nature  has  given  him  her  choicest  gift, — 
an  open  eye  and  heart.  He  will  look  on  the  world,  where- 
soever he  can  catch  a  glimpse  of  it,  with  eager  curiosity : 
to  the  last,  we  find  this  a  striking  characteristic  of  him ; 
for  all  human  interests  he  has  a  sense ;  the  meanest  handi- 
craftsman  could   interest   him,    even   in   extreme   age,   by 


BosivelVs  Life  of  Johnson.  133 

speaking  of  his  craft :  the  ways  of  men  are  all  interesting  to 
him ;  any  human  thing  that  he  did  not  know,  he  wished  to 
know.  Reflection,  moreover.  Meditation,  was  what  he  prac- 
tised incessantly,  with  or  without  his  will :  for  the  mind  of 
the  man  was  earnest,  deep  as  well  as  humane.  Thus  would 
the  world,  such  fragments  of  it  as  he  could  survey,  form 
itself,  or  continually  tend  to  form  itself,  into  a  coherent 
Whole  ;  on  any  and  on  all  phases  of  which,  his  vote  and 
voice  must  be  well  worth  listening  to.  As  a  speaker  of  the 
Word,  he  will  speak  real  words  ;  no  idle  jargon  or  hollow 
triviality  will  issue  from  him.  His  aim  too  is  clear,  attain- 
able; that  of  working  fo7'  his  wages:  let  him  do  this  hon- 
estly, and  all  else  will  follow  of  its  own  accord. 

With  such  omens,  into  such  a  warfare,  did  Johnson  go 
forth.  A  rugged  hungry  Kern  or  Gallowglass,  as  we  called 
him:  yet  indomitable;  in  whom  lay  the  true  spirit  of  a 
Soldier.  With  giant's  force  he  toils,  since  such  is  his 
appointment,  were  it  but  at  hewing  of  wood  and  drawing  of 
water  for  old  sedentary  bushy-wigged  Cave  ;  distinguishes 
himself  by  mere  quantity,  if  there  is  to  be  no  other  distinc- 
tion. He  can  write  all  things  ;  frosty  Latin  verses,  if  these 
are  the  salable  commodity  ;  Book-prefaces,  Political  Philip- 
pics, Review  Articles,  Parliamentary  Debates  :  all  things  he 
does  rapidly  ;  still  more  surprising,  all  things  he  does  thor- 
oughly and  well.  How  he  sits  there,  in  his  rough-hewn, 
amorphous  bulk,  in  that  upper-room  at  St.  John's  Gate,  and 
trundles-off  sheet  after  sheet  of  those  Senate-of-Lilliput 
Debates,  to  the  clamorous  Printer's  Devils  waiting  for  them 
with  insatiable  throat,  down  stairs ;  himself  perhaps  im- 
pransus  all  the  while  !  Admire  also  the  greatness  of  Litera- 
ture ;  how  a  grain  of  mustard-seed  cast  into  its  Nile-waters, 
shall  settle  in  the  teeming  mould,  and  be  found  one  day 
as  a  Tree,  in  whose  branches  all  the  fowls  of  heaven  may 
lodge.  Was  it  not  so  with  these  Lilliput  Debates  ?  In  that 
small  project  and  act  began  the  stupendous  Fourth  Estate; 


134  Selections  from    Carlyle. 

whose  wide  world-embracing  influences  what  eye  can  take 
in ;  in  whose  boughs  are  there  not  already  fowls  of  strange 
feather  lodged  ?  Such  things,  and  far  stranger,  were  done 
in  that  wondrous  old  Portal,  even  in  latter  times.  And 
then  figure  Samuel  dining  '  behind  the  screen,'  from  a 
trencher  covertly  handed-in  to  him,  at  a  preconcerted  nod 
from  the  '  great  bushy  wig ; '  Samuel  too  ragged  to  show 
face,  yet  'made  a  happy  man  of  by  hearing  his  praise 
spoken.  If  to  Johnson  himself,  then  much  more  to  us, 
may  that  St.  John's  Gate  be  a  place  we  can  'never  pass 
without  veneration.'  * 

*  All  Johnson's  places  of  resort  and  abode  are  venerable,  and  now 
indeed  to  the  many  as  well  as  to  the  few ;  for  his  name  has  become  great ; 
and,  as  we  mnst  often  with  a  kind  of  sad  admiration  recognize,  there  is, 
even  to  the  rudest  man,  no  greatness  so  venerable  as  intellectual,  as 
spiritual  greatness ;  nay,  properly  there  is  no  other  venerable  at  all.  For 
example,  what  soul-subduing  magic,  for  the  very  clown  or  craftsman  of 
our  England,  lies  in  the  word  *  Scholar  ' !  "  He  is  a  Scholar:  "  he  is  a  man 
wiser  than  we;  of  a  wisdom  to  us  boundless,  infinite:  who  shall  speak  his 
worth!  Such  things,  we  say,  fill  us  with  a  certain  pathetic  admiration  of 
defaced  and  obstructed,  yet  glorious  man  ;  archangel  though  in  ruins,  —  or 
rather,  though  in  rubbish  of  encumbrances  and  mud-incrustations,  which 
also  are  not  to  be  perpetual. 

Nevertheless,  in  this  mad-whirling,  all-forgetting  London,  the  haunts 
of  the  mighty  that  were  can  seldom  without  a  strange  difiiculty  be  dis- 
covered. Will  any  man,  for  instance,  tell  us  which  bricks  it  was  in 
Lincoln's  Inn  Buildings  that  Ben  .Jonson's  hand  and  trowel  laid?  No 
man,  it  is  to  be  feared, — and  also  grumbled  at.  With  Samuel  Johnson 
may  it  prove  otherwise !  A  Gentleman  of  the  British  Museum  is  said  to 
have  made  drawings  of  all  his  residences :  the  blessing  of  Old  Mortality 
be  upon  him!  We  ourselves,  not  without  labor  and  risk,  lately  discovered 
GouGH  Square,  between  Fleet  Street  and  Holborn  (adjoining  both  to 
Bolt  Court  and  to  Johnson's  Court)  ;  and  on  the  second  day  of  search, 
the  very  House  there,  wherein  the  English  Dictionary  was  composed.  It 
is  the  first  or  corner  house  on  the  right  hand,  as  you  enter  through  the 
arched  way  from  the  North-west.  The  actual  occupant,  an  elderly,  well- 
washed,  decent-looking  man,  invited  us  to  enter;  and  courteously  under- 
took to  be  cicerone  ;  though  in  his  memory  lay  nothing  but  the  foolishest 
jumble  and  hallucination.  It  is  a  stout,  old-fashioned,  oak-balustraded 
house :  "  I  have  spent  many  a  pound  and  penny  on  it  since  then,"  said  the 
worthy  Landlord  :  "  here,  you  see,  this  Bedroom  was  the  Doctor's  study; 


BosweU's  Life  of  Johnson.  135 

Poverty,  Distress,  and  as  yet  Obscurity,  are  his  compan- 
ions :  so  poor  is  lie  that  his  Wife  must  leave  him,  and  seek 
shelter  among  other  relations ;  Johnson's  household  has 
accommodation  for  one  inmate  only.  To  all  his  ever-vary- 
ing, ever-recurring  troubles,  moreover,  must  be  added  this 
continual  one  of  ill-health,  and  its  concomitant  depres- 
siveness :  a  galling  load,  which  would  have  crushed  most 
common  mortals  into  desperation,  is  his  appointed  ballast 
and  life-burden ;  he  '  could  not  remember  the  day  he  had 
passed  free  from  pain.'  ISTevertheless,  Life,  as  we  said  before, 
is  always  Life  :  a  healthy  soul,  imprison  it  as  you  will,  in 
squalid  garrets,  shabby  coat,  bodily  sickness,  or  whatever 
else,  will  assert  its  heaven-granted  indefeasible  Freedom,  its 
right  to  conquer  difficulties,  to  do  work,  even  to  feel  gladness. 
^Johnson  does  not  whine  over  his  existence,  but  manfully 
makes  the  most  and  best  of  it.  ^  He  said,  a  man  might  live 
in  a  garret  at  eighteenpence  ar-week :  few  people  would 
inquire  where  he  lodged;  and  if  they  did,  it  was  easy  to 
say,  "  Sir,  I  am  to  be  found  at  such  a  place."  By  spending 
threepence  in  a  coffee-house,  he  might  be  for  some  hours 
every  day  in  very  good  company;  he  might  dine  for  six- 
pence, breakfast  on  bread-and-milk  for  a  penny,  and  do 
without  supper.  On  dean-shirt  day  he  went  abroad  and 
paid  visits.'  Think  by  whom  and  of  whom  this  was  uttered, 
and  ask  then,  Whether  there  is  more  joathos  in  it  than  in 
a  whole  circulatisg-library  of  Giaours  and  Harolds,  or  less 
pathos  ?  On  another  occasion,  '  when  Dr.  Johnson,  one  day, 
read  his  o^vn  Satire,  in  which  the  life  of  a  scholar  is  painted, 

that  was  the  garden  "  (a  plot  of  delved  ground  somewhat  larger  than  a 
bed-quilt),  "  where  he  walked  for  exercise ;  these  three  garret  Bedrooms  " 
(where  his  three  Copyists  sat  and  wrote)  "  were  the  place  he  kept  his  — 
Pupils  in" \  Tempus  edax  rerum!  Yet  ferax  also:  for  our  friend  now 
added,  with  a  wistful  look,  which  strove  to  seem  merely  historical :  "  I  let 
it  all  in  Lodgings,  to  respectable  gentlemen  ;  by  the  quarter  or  the  month ; 
it's  all  one  to  me."  —  "To  me  also,"  whispered  the  Ghost  of  Samuel,  as 
we  went  pensively  our  ways. 


136  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

with  the  various  obstructions  thrown  in  his  way  to  fortune 
and  to  fame,  he  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears.'  These  were 
sweet  tears ;  the  sweet  victorious  remembrance  lay  in  them 
of  toils  indeed  frightful,  yet  never  flinched  from,  and  now 
triumphed  over.  '  One  day  it  shall  delight  you  also  to  re- 
member labor  done  ! '  —  Neither,  though  Johnson  is  obscure 
and  poor,  need  the  highest  enjoyment  of  existence,  that  of 
heart  freely  communing  with  heart,  be  denied  him.  Savage 
and  he  wander  homeless  through  the  streets ;  without  bed, 
yet  not  Avithout  friendly  converse ;  such  another  conversa- 
tion not,  it  is  like,  producible  in  the  proudest  drawing-room 
of  London.  Nor,  under  the  void  Night,  upon  the  hard  pave- 
ment, are  their  own  woes  the  only  topic  :  nowise  ;  they  '  will 
stand  by  their  country,'  they  there,  the  two  Backwoodsmen 
of  the  Brick  Desert ! 

Of  all  outward  evils  Obscurity  is  perhaps  in  itself  the 
least.  To  Johnson,  as  to  a  healthy-minded  man,  the  fan- 
tastic article,  sold  or  given  under  the  title  of  Fame,  had 
little  or  no  value  but  its  intrinsic  one.  He  prized  it  as  the 
means  of  getting  him  employment  and  good  wages  ;  scarcely 
as  anything  more.  His  light  and  guidance  came  from  a 
loftier  source  ;  of  which,  in  honest  aversion  to  all  hypocrisy 
or  pretentious  talk,  he  spoke  not  to  men  ;  nay,  perhaps, 
being  of  a  healthy  mind,  had  never  spoken  to  himself.  We 
reckon  it  a  striking  fact  in  Johnson's  history,  this  careless- 
ness of  his  to  Fame.  Most  authors  speak  of  their  Tame'  as 
if  it  were  a  quite  priceless  matter;  the  grand  ultimatum, 
and  heavenly  Constantine's  Banner  they  had  to  follow,  and 
conquer  under.  —  Thy  '  Fame ' !  Unhappy  mortal,  where 
will  it  and  thou  both  be  in  some  fifty  years  ?  Shakspeare 
himself  has  lasted  but  two  hundred ;  Homer  (partly  by 
accident)  three  thousand  :  and  does  not  already  an  Eter- 
nity encircle  every  3Ie  and  every  Thee  f  Cease,  then,  to 
sit  feverishly  hatching  on  that  '  Fame '  of  thine ;  and  flap- 
ping and  shrieking  with  fierce  hisses,  like  brood-goose  on 


BoswelVs  Life  of  Johnson.  137 

her  last  e^g,  if  man  shall  or  dare  ai^proach  it !  Quarrel 
not  with  me,  hate  me  not,  my  Brother  :  make  what  thou 
canst  of  thy  q^^,  and  welcome  :  God  knows,  I  will  not  steal 
it ;  I  believe  it  to  be  addle.  —  Johnson,  for  his  part,  was  no 
man  to  be  killed  by  a  review ;  concerning  which  matter, 
it  was  said  by  a  benevolent  person :  ^  If  any  author  can  be 
reviewed  to  death,  let  it  be,  with  all  convenient  despatch, 
done.''  Johnson  thankfully  receives  any  word  spoken  in 
his  favor ;  is  nowise  disobliged  by  a  lampoon,  but  will  look 
at  it,  if  pointed  out  to  him,  and  show  how  it  might  have 
been  done  better :  the  lampoon  itself  is  indeed  7iofhing,  a 
soap-bubble  that  next  moment  will  become  a  drop  of  sour 
suds  ;  but  in  the  mean  while,  if  it  do  anything,  it  keeps 
him  more  in  the  world's  eye,  and  the  next  bargain  will  be 
all  the  richer  :  '  Sir,  if  they  should  cease  to  talk  of  me,  I 
must  starve.'  Sound  heart  and  understanding  head :  these 
fail  no  man,  not  even  a  Man  of  Letters ! 

Obscurity,  however,  was,  in  Johnson's  case,  whether  a 
light  or  heavy  evil,  likely  to  be  no  lasting  one.  He  is  ani- 
mated by  the  spirit  of  a  true  ivorhman,  resolute  to  do  his 
work  well ;  and  he  does  his  work  well ;  all  his  work,  that 
of  writing,  that  of  living.  A  man  of  this  stamp  is  un- 
happily not  so  common  in  the  literary  or  in  any  other 
department  of  the  world,  that  he  can  continue  always 
unnoticed.  By  slow  degrees,  Johnson  emerges  ;  looming, 
at  first,  huge  and  dim  in  the  eye  of  an  observant  few ;  at 
last  disclosed,  in  his  real  proportions,  to  the  eye  of  the 
whole  world,  and  encircled  with  a  ^  light-nimbus '  of  glory, 
so  that  whoso  is  not  blind  must  and  shall  behold  him.  By 
slow  degrees,  we  said;  for  this  also  is  notable;  slow  but 
sure :  as  his  fame  waxes  not  by  exaggerated  clamor  of  what 
he  seems  to  be,  but  by  better  and  better  insight  of  what  he 
is,  so  it  will  last  and  stand  wearing,  being  genuine.  Thus 
indeed  is  it  always,  or  nearly  always,  with  true  fame.  The 
heavenly  Luminary  rises  amid  vapors  ;  stargazers  enough 


138  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

must  scan  it  witli  critical  telescopes ;  it  makes  no  blazing, 
tlie  world  can  either  look  at  it,  or  forbear  looking  at  it ; 
not  till  after  a  time  and  times  does  its  celestial  eternal 
nature  become  indubitable.  Pleasant,  on  the  other  hand,  is 
the  blazing  of  a  Tarbarrel ;  the  crowd  dance  merrily  round 
it,  with  loud  huzzaing,  universal  three-times-three,  and, 
like  Homer's  peasants,  '■  bless  the  useful  light : '  but  un- 
happily it  so  soon  ends  in  darkness,  foul  choking  smoke ; 
and  is  kicked  into  the  gutters,  a  nameless  imbroglio  of 
charred  staves,  pitch-cinders,  and  vomissement  du  diable ! 

But  indeed,  from  of  old,  Johnson  has  enjoyed  all,  or 
nearly  all,  that  Fame  can  yield  any  man :  the  respect,  the 
obedience  of  those  that  are  about  him  and  inferior  to  him  ; 
of  those  whose  opinion  alone  can  have  any  forcible  impres- 
sion on  him.  A  little  circle  gathers  round  the  Wise  man ; 
which  gradually  enlarges  as  the  report  thereof  spreads,  and 
more  can  come  to  see  and  to  believe ;  for  Wisdom  is  precious, 
and  of  irresistible  attraction  to  all.  '  An  ins]3ired  idiot,'  Gold- 
smith, hangs  strangely  about  him ;  though,  as  Hawkins  says, 
'  he  loved  not  Johnson,  but  rather  envied  him  for  his  parts ; 
and  once  entreated  a  friend  to  desist  from  praising  him, 
"  for  in  doing  so,"  said  he,  "  you  harrow-up  my  very  soul !  " ' 
Yet,  on  the  whole,  there  is  no  evil  in  the  '  gooseberry-fool ; ' 
but  rather  much  good ;  of  a  finer,  if  of  a  weaker,  sort  than 
Johnson's ;  and  all  the  more  genuine  that  he  himself  could 
never  become  conscious  of  it,  —  though  unhappily  never 
cease  attempting  to  become  so  :  the  Author  of  the  genuine 
Vicar  of  Wakefield,  nill  he,  will  he,  must  needs  fly  towards 
such  a  mass  of  genuine  Manhood;  and  Dr.  Minor  keep 
gyrating  round  Dr.  Major,  alternately  attracted  and  repelled. 
Then  there  is  the  chivalrous  Topham  Beauclerk,  with  his 
sharp  wit  and  gallant  courtly  ways :  there  is  Bennet  Lang- 
ton,  an  orthodox  gentleman,  and  worthy ;  though  Johnson 
once  laughed,  louder  almost  than  mortal,  at  his  last  will 
and  testament ;  and  'could  not  stop  his  merriment,  but  con- 


BoswelVs  Life  of  Johnson,  139 

tinned  it  all  the  way  till  he  got  without  the  Temple-gate ; 
then  burst  into  such  a  fit  of  laughter  that  he  appeared  to  be 
almost  in  a  convulsion;  and,  in  order  to  support  himself, 
laid  hold  of  one  of  the  posts  at  the  side  of  the  foot-pavement, 
and  sent  forth  peals  so  loud  that,  in  the  silence  of  the  night, 
his  voice  seemed  to  resound  from  Temple-bar  to  Fleet- 
ditch  I '  Lastly  comes  his  solid-thinking,  solid-feeling  Thrale, 
the  well-beloved  man;  with  Tliralia,  a  bright  papilionaceous 
creature,  whom  the  elephant  loved  to  play  with,  and  wave 
to  and  fro  upon  his  trunk.  Not  to  speak  of  a  reverent 
Bozzy ;  for  what  need  is  there  farther  ?  —  Or  of  the  spiritual 
Luminaries,  with  tongue  or  pen,  who  made  that  age  remark- 
able ;  or  of  Highland  Lairds  drinking,  in  fierce  usquebaugh, 
"  Your  health,  Toctor  Shonson  !  "  —  Still  less  of  many  such  as 
that  poor  '  Mr.  F.  Lewis,'  older  in  date,  of  whose  birth,  death, 
and  whole  terrestrial  res  gestce,  this  only,  and  strange  enough 
this  actually,  survives :  "  Sir,  he  lived  in  London,  and  hung 
loose  upon  society !  "     Stat  Parvi  nominis  umbra.  — 

In  his  fifty-third  year  he  is  beneficed,  by  the  royal  bounty, 
with  a  Pension  of  three-hundred  pounds.  Loud  clamor  is 
always  more  or  less  insane :  but  probably  the  insanest  of 
all  loud  clamors  in  the  eighteenth  century  was  this  that  was 
raised  about  Johnson's  Pension.  Men  seem  to  be  led  by 
the  noses  :  but  in  reality,  it  is  by  the  ears,  —  as  some  ancient 
slaves  were,  who  had  their  ears  bored ;  or  as  some  modern 
quadrupeds  may  be,  whose  ears  are  long.  Very  falsely  was 
it  said,  'iSfames  do  not  change  Things.'  Names  do  change 
Things ;  nay,  for  most  part  they  are  the  only  substance 
which  mankind  can  discern  in  Things.  The  whole  sum 
that  Johnson,  during  the  remaining  twenty-two  years  of  his 
life,  drew  from  the  public  funds  of  England,  would  have 
supported  some  Supreme  Priest  for  about  half  as  many 
weeks ;  it  amounts  very  nearly  to  the  revenue  of  our  poorest 
Church-Overseer  for  one  twelvemonth.  Of  secular  Admin- 
istrators of  Provinces,  and  Horse-subduers,  and  Game-de- 


140  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

stroyers,  we  shall  not  so  much  as  speak :  but  who  were  the 
Primates  of  England,  and  the  Primates  of  All  England, 
during  Johnson's  days  ?  No  man  has  remembered.  Again, 
is  the  Primate  of  all  England  something,  or  is  he  nothing  ? 
If  something,  then  what  but  the  man  who,  in  the  supreme 
degree,  teaches  and  spiritually  edifies,  and  leads  towards 
Heaven  by  guiding  wisely  through  the  Earth,  the  living 
souls  that  inhabit  England  ?  We  touch  here  upon  deep  mat- 
ters ;  which  but  remotely  concern  us,  and  might  lead  us  into 
still  deeper:  clear  in  the  meanwhile  it  is,  that  the  true 
Spiritual  Edifier  and  Soul's-Father  of  all  England  was,  and 
till  very  lately  continued  to  be,  the  man  named  Samuel 
Johnson,  —  whom  this  scot-and-lot-paying  world  cackled 
reproachfully  to  see  remunerated  like  a  Supervisor  of 
Excise ! 

If  Destiny  had  beaten  hard  on  poor  Samuel,  and  did  never 
cease  to  visit  him  too  roughly,  yet  the  last  section  of  his 
Life  might  be  pronounced  victorious,  and  on  the  whole 
happy.  He  was  not  idle ;  but  now  no  longer  goaded-on  by 
want;  the  light  which  had  shone  irradiating  the  dark 
haunts  of  Poverty,  now  illuminates  the  circles  of  Wealth,  of 
a  certain  culture  and  elegant  intelligence ;  he  who  had  once 
been  admitted  to  speak  with  Edmund  Cave  and  Tobacco 
Browne,  now  admits  a  Eeynolds  and  a  Burke  to  speak  with 
him.  Loving  friends  are  there  ;  Listeners,  even  Answerers: 
the  fruit  of  his  long  labors  lies  round  him  in  fair  legible 
Writings,  of  Philosophy,  Eloquence,  Morality,  Philology; 
some  excellent,  all  worthy  and  genuine  Works ;  for  which 
too,  a  deep,  earnest  murmur  of  thanks  reaches  him  from  all 
ends  of  his  Fatherland.  Nay,  there  are  works  of  Goodness, 
of  undying  Mercy,  which  even  he  has  possessed  the  power 
to  do  :  '  AVhat  I  gave  I  have ;  what  I  spent  I  had  ! '  Early 
friends  had  long  sunk  into  the  grave  ;  yet  in  his  soul  they 
ever  lived,  fresh  and  clear,  with  soft  pious  breathings  towards 
them,  not  without  a  still  hope  of  one  day  meeting  them  again 


BoswelVs  Life  of  Johnson.  141 

in  purer  union.  Such  was  Johnson's  Life  :  the  victorious 
Battle  of  a  free,  true  Man.  Finally  he  died  the  death  of 
the  free  and  true :  a  dark  cloud  of  Death,  solemn  and  not 
untinged  with  halos  of  immortal  Hope,  'took  him  away,' 
and  our  eyes  could  no  longer  behold  him ;  but  can  still 
behold  the  trace  and  impress  of  his  courageous  honest  spirit, 
deep-legible  in  the  World's  Business,  wheresoever  he  Avalked 
and  was. 

To  estimate  the  quantity  of  Work  that  Johnson  performed, 
how  much  poorer  the  World  were  had  it  wanted  him,  can,  as 
in  all  such  cases,  never  be  accurately  done  ;  cannot,  till  after 
some  longer  space,  be  approximately  done.  All  work  is  as 
seed  sown ;  it  grows  and  spreads,  and  sows  it3t^  aiie  vvj^nd 
so,  in  endless  palingenesia,  lives  and  works.  To  Johnson's 
Writings,  good  and  solid  and  still  profitable  as  they  are,  we 
have  already  rated  his  Life  and  Conversation  as  superior. 
By  the  one  and  by  the  other,  who  shall  compute  what  effects 
have  been  produced,  and  are  still,  and  into  deep  Time, 
producing  ? 

So  much,  however,  we  can  already  see :  It  is  now  some 
three  quarters  of  a  century  that  Johnson  has  been  the  Pro- 
phet of  the  English ;  the  man  by  whose  light  the  English 
people,  in  public  and  in  private,  more  than  by  any  other 
man's,  have  guided  their  existence.  Higher  light  than  that 
immediately  practical  one;  higher  virtue  than  an  honest 
Prudexce,  he  could  not  then  communicate  ;  nor  perhaps 
could  they  have  received :  such  light,  such  virtue,  however, 
he  did  communicate.  How  to  thread  this  labyrinthic  Time, 
the  fallen  and  falling  Ruin  of  Times ;  to  silence  vain  Scru- 
ples, hold  firm  to  the  last  the  fragments  of  old  Belief,  and 
with  earnest  eye  still  discern  some  glimpses  of  a  true  path, 
and  go  forward  thereon,  '  in  a  world  where  there  is  much  to 
be  done,  and  little  to  be  known : '  this  is  what  Samuel  John- 
son, by  act  and  word,  taught  his  ISTation ;  what  his  Nation 


142  Selectio7is  fro7n   Carlyle. 

received  and  learned  of  liim,  more  than  of  any  other.  We 
can  view  him  as  the  preserver  and  transmitter  of  whatsoever 
was  genuine  in  the  spirit  of  Toryism ;  which  genuine  spirit, 
it  is  now  becoming  manifest,  must  again  embody  itself  in  all 
new  forms  of  Society,  be  what  they  may,  that  are  to  exist 
and  have  continuance  —  elsewhere  than  on  Paper.  The  last 
in  many  things,  Johnson  was  the  last  genuine  Tory ;  the  last 
of  Englishmen  who,  with  strong  voice  and  wholly-believing 
heart,  x^reached  the  Doctrine  of  Standing-still ;  who,  without 
selfishness  or  slavishness,  reverenced  the  existing  Powers, 
and  could  assert  the  privileges  of  rank,  though  himself  poor, 
neglected,  and  plebeian;  who  had  heart-devoutness  with 
heart-hatred  of  cant,  was  orthodox-religious  with  his  eyes 
open ;  and  in  all  things  and  everywhere  spoke  out  in  plain 
English,  from  a  soul  wherein  Jesuitism  could  find  no  harbor, 
and  with  the  front  and  tone  not  of  a  diplomatist  but  of  a  man. 

The  last  of  the  Tories  was  Johnson:  not  Burke,  as  is 
often  said;  Burke  was  essentially  a  Whig,  and  only  on 
reaching  the  verge  of  the  chasm  towards  which  Whiggism 
from  the  first  was  inevitably  leading,  recoiled ;  and,  like  a 
man  vehement  rather  than  earnest,  a  resplendent  far-sighted 
Ehetorician  rather  than  a  deep  sure  Thinker,  recoiled  with 
no  measure,  convulsively,  and  damaging  what  he  drove  back 
with  him. 

In  a  world  which  exists  by  the  balance  of  Antagonisms, 
the  respective  merit  of  the  Conservator  and  the  Innovator 
must  ever  remain  debatable.  Great,  in  the  mean  while,  and 
undoubted  for  both  sides,  is  the  merit  of  him  who,  in  a  day 
of  Change,  walks  wisely,  honestly.  Johnson's  aim  was  in 
itself  an  impossible  one :  this  of  stemming  the  eternal  Flood 
of  Time ;  of  clutching  all  things,  and  anchoring  them  down, 
and  saying,  '  Move  not ! '  —  how  could  it  or  should  it  ever 
have  success  ?  The  strongest  man  can  but  retard  the  cur- 
rent partially  and  for  a  short  hour.  Yet  even  in  such 
shortest  retardation  may  not  an  inestimable  value  lie  ?     If 


BoswelVs  Life  of  Johnson.  143 

England  has  escaped  the  blood-bath  of  a  French  Revolution ; 
and  may  yet,  in  virtue  of  this  delay  and  of  the  experience 
it  has  given,  work  out  her  deliverance  calmly  into  a  new 
Era,  let  Samuel  Johnson,  beyond  all  contemporary  or  suc- 
ceeding men,  have  the  praise  for  it.  We  said  above  that  he 
was  appointed  to  be  Euler  of  the  British  Nation  for  a  sea- 
son :  whoso  will  look  beyond  the  surface,  into  the  heart  of 
the  world's  movements,  may  find  that  all  Pitt  Administra- 
tions, and  Continental  Subsidies,  and  Waterloo  victories, 
rested  on  the  possibility  of  making  England  yet  a  little 
while  Toryisli,  Loyal  to  the  Old;  and  this  again  on  the 
anterior  reality,  that  the  Wise  had  found  such  Loyalty 
still  practicable,  and  recomniendable.  England  had  its 
Hume,  as  France  had  its  Voltaires  and  Diderots;  but  the 
Johnson  was  peculiar  to  us. 

If  we  ask  now,  by  what  endowment  it  mainly  was  that 
Johnson  realized  such  a  Life  for  himself  and  others ;  what 
quality  of  character  the  main  phenomena  of  his  Life  may 
be  most  naturally  deduced  from,  and  his  other  qualities 
most  naturally  subordinated  to,  in  our  conception  of  him, 
perhaps  the  answer  were  :  The  quality  of  Courage,  of  Valor ; 
that  Johnson  was  a  Brave  Man.  The  Courage  that  can  go 
forth,  once  and  away,  to  Chalk-Farm,  and  have  itself  shot 
and  snuffed  out  with  decency,  is  noAvise  wholly  what  we 
mean  here.  Such  courage  we  indeed  esteem  an  exceeding 
small  matter ;  capable  of  coexisting  with  a  life  full  of  false- 
hood, feebleness,  poltroonery,  and  despicability.  Nay,  oftener 
it  is  Cowardice  rather  that  produces  the  result :  for  con- 
sider. Is  the  Chalk-Farm  Pistoleer  inspired  with  any  reason- 
able Belief  and  Determination ;  or  is  he  hounded-on  by  hag- 
gard indefinable  Fear,  —  how  he  will  be  cut  at  public  places, 
and  ^plucked  geese  of  the  neighborhood'  will  wag  their 
tongues  at  him,  a  plucked  goose  ?  If  he  go  then,  and  be 
shot  without  shrieking  or  audible  uproar,  it  is  well  for  him : 
nevertheless   there  is  nothing   amazing  in  it.     Courage   to 


144  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

manage  all  this  lias  not  perhaps  been  denied  to  any  man,  or 
to  any  woman.  Thus,  do  not  recruiting  sergeants  drum 
through  the  streets  of  manufacturing  towns,  and  collect 
ragged  losels  enough ;  every  one  of  whom,  if  once  dressed 
in  red,  and  trained  a  little,  will  receive  lire  cheerfully  for 
the  small  sum  of  one  shilling  per  diem,  and  have  the  soul 
blown  out  of  him  at  last,  with  perfect  propriety  ?  The 
Courage  that  dares  only  die  is  on  the  whole  no  sublime 
affair;  necessary  indeed,  yet  universal;  pitiful  Avhen  it 
begins  to  parade  itself.  On  this  Globe  of  ours  there  are 
some  thirty-six  persons  that  manifest  it,  seldom  with  the 
smallest  failure,  during  every  second  of  time.  Nay,  look  at 
Newgate :  do  not  the  offscourings  of  Creation,  when  con- 
demned to  the  gallows  as  if  they  were  not  men  but  vermin, 
walk  thither  with  decency,  and,  even  to  the  scowls  and 
hootings  of  the  whole  Universe,  give  their  stern  good-night 
in  silence  ?  What  is  to  be  undergone  only  once,  we  may 
undergo;  what  must  be,  comes  almost  of  its  own  accord. 
Considered  as  Duellist,  what  a  poor  figure  does  the  fiercest 
Irish  Whiskerando  make  in  comparison  w^ith  any  English 
Game-cock,  such  as  you  may  buy  for  fifteenpence ! 

The  Courage  we  desire  and  prize  is  not  the  Courage  to  die 
decently,  but  to  live  manfully.  This,  when  by  God's  grace 
it  has  been  given,  lies  deep  in  the  soul ;  like  genial  heat, 
fosters  all  other  virtues  and  gifts;  without  it  they  could 
not  live.  In  spite  of  our  innumerable  Waterloos  and  Peter- 
loos,  and  such  campaigning  as  there  has  been,  this  Courage 
we  allude  to,  and  call  the  only  true  one,  is  perhaps  rarer  in 
these  last  ages  than  it  has  been  in  any  other  since  the  Saxon 
Invasion  under  Hengist.  Altogether  extinct  it  can  never 
be  among  men ;  otherwise  the  species  Man  were  no  longer 
for  this  world :  here  and  there,  in  all  times,  under  various 
guises,  men  are  sent  hither  not  only  to  demonstrate  but 
exhibit  it,  and  testify,  as  from  heart  to  heart,  that  it  is  still 
possible,  still  practicable. 


BosivelVs  Life  of  Johnson.  145 

Johnson,  in  tlie  eighteenth  century,  and  as  Man  of 
Letters,  was  one  of  such ;  and,  in  good  truth,  '  the  bravest 
of  the  brave.'  Wliat  mortal  coukl  have  more  to  war  with  ? 
Yet,  as  we  saw,  he  yielded  not,  faltered  not ;  he  fought, 
and  even,  such  was  his  blessedness,  prevailed.  Whoso  will 
understand  what  it  is  to  have  a  man's  heart  may  find  that, 
since  the  time  of  John  Milton,  no  braver  heart  had  beat  in 
any  English  bosom  than  Samuel  Johnson  now  bore.  Ob- 
serve too  that  he  never  called  himself  brave,  never  felt 
himself  to  be  so ;  the  more  completely  icas  so.  No  Griant 
Despair,  no  Golgotha  Death-dance  or  Sorcerer's-Sabbath  of 
^Literary  Life  in  London,'  appals  this  pilgrim;  he  works 
resolutely  for  deliverance ;  in  still  defiance  steps  stoutly 
along.  The  thing  that  is  given  him  to  do,  he  can  make 
himself  do ;  what  is  to  be  endured,  he  can  endure  in  silence. 

How  the  great  soul  of  old  Samuel,  consuming  daily  his 
own  bitter  unalleviable  allotment  of  misery  and  toil,  shows 
beside  the  poor  flimsy  little  soul  of  young  Boswell;  one 
day  flaunting  in  the  ring  of  vanity,  tarrying  by  the  wine- 
cup  and  crying,  '  Aha,  the  wine  is  red ; '  the  next  day 
deploring  his  downpressed,  night-shaded,  quite  poor  estate, 
and  thinking  it  unkind  that  the  whole  movement  of  the 
Universe  should  go  on,  while  Ids  digestive-apparatus  had 
stopped  !  We  reckon  Johnson's  '  talent  of  silence '  to  be 
among  his  great  and  too  rare  gifts.  Where  there  is  nothing 
farther  to  be  done,  there  shall  nothing  farther  be  said :  like 
his  own  poor  blind  Welshwoman,  he  accomplished  some- 
what, and  also  'endured  fifty  years  of  wretchedness  with 
unshaken  fortitude.'  How  grim  was  Life  to  him;  a  sick 
Prison-house  and  Doubting-castle  !  '  His  great  business,'  he 
would  profess,  'was  to  escape  from  himself.'  Yet  towards 
all  this  he  has  taken  his  position  and  resolution ;  can  dis- 
miss it  all  'with  frigid  indifference,  having  little  to  hope 
or  to  fear.'  Friends  are  stupid,  and  pusillanimous,  and 
parsimonious ;  ^  wearied  of  his  stay,  yet  offended  at  his  de- 


146  Selections  from    Carlyle. 

parture : '  it  is  the  manner  of  the  world.  '  By  popular 
delusion/  remarks  he  with  a  gigantic  calmness,  'illiterate 
writers  will  rise  into  renown : '  it  is  portion  of  the  History 
of  English  Literature ;  a  perennial  thing,  this  same  popular 
delusion ;  and  will  —  alter  the  character  of  the  Language. 

Closely  connected  with  this  quality  of  Valor,  partly  as 
springing  from  it,  partly  as  protected  by  it,  are  the  more 
recognizable  qualities  of  Truthfulness  in  word  and  thought, 
and  Honesty  in  action.  There  is  a  reciprocity  of  influence 
here :  for  as  the  realizing  of  Truthfulness  and  Honesty  is 
the  lifelight  and  great  aim  of  Valor,  so  without  Valor  they 
cannot,  in  anywise,  be  realized.  Now,  in  s^oite  of  all  practi- 
cal short-comings,  no  one  that  sees  into  the  significance  of 
Johnson  will  say  that  his  prime  object  was  not  Truth.  In 
conversation  doubtless  you  may  observe  him,  on  occasion, 
fighting  as  if  for  victory;  —  and  must  pardon  these  ebul- 
liences of  a  careless  hour,  which  were  not  Avithout  tempta- 
tion and  i)i"ovocation.  Eemark  likewise  two  things:  that 
such  prize-arguings  were  ever  on  merely  superficial  debata- 
ble questions ;  and  then  that  they  were  argued  generally  by 
the  fair  laws  of  battle  and  logic-fence,  by  one  cunning  in 
that  same.  If  their  purpose  was  excusable,  their  effect  was 
harmless,  perhaps  beneficial :  that  of  taming  noisy  medi- 
ocrity, and  showing  it  another  side  of  a  debatable  matter; 
to  see  both  sides  of  which  was,  for  the  first  time,  to  see  the 
Truth  of  it.  In  his  Writings  themselves  are  errors  enough, 
crabbed  prepossessions  enough;  yet  these  also  of  a  quite 
extraneous  and  accidental  nature,  nowhere  a  wilful  shutting 
of  the  eyes  to  the  Truth.  Nay,  is  there  not  everywhere  a 
heartfelt  discernment,  singular,  almost  admirable,  if  we  con- 
sider through  what  confused  conflicting  lights  and  hallucina- 
tions it  had  to  be  attained,  of  the  highest  everlasting  Truth, 
and  beginning  of  all  Truths  :  this  namely,  that  man  is  ever, 
and  even  in  the  age  of  Wilkes  and  Whitefield,  a  Revelation 
of   God  to  man;   and  lives,  moves,  and  has  his  being,  in 


BosivelVs  Life  of  Johnson.  147 

Truth  only ;    is  either  true,  or,  in  strict  speech,  is  not  at 
all? 

Quite  spotless,  on  the  other  hand,  is  Johnson's  love  of 
Truth,  if  we  look  at  it  as  expressed  in  Practice,  as  what  we 
have  named  Honesty  of  action.  '  Clear  your  mind  of  Cant ; ' 
dear  it,  throw  Cant  utterly  away :  such  was  his  emphatic, 
repeated  precept ;  and  did  not  he  himself  faithfully  conform 
to  it  ?  The  Life  of  this  man  has  been,  as  it  were,  turned 
inside  out,  and  examined  with  microscopes  by  friend  and 
foe ;  yet  was  there  no  Lie  found  in  him.  His  Doings  and 
Writings  are  not  shows  but  performances :  you  may  weigh 
them  in  the  balance,  and  they  will  stand  weight.  Not  a 
line,  not  a  sentence  is  dishonestly  done,  is  other  than  it 
pretends  to  be.  Alas !  and  he  wrote  not  out  of  inward 
inspiration,  but  to  earn  his  wages :  and  with  that  grand 
perennial  tide  of  '  popular  delusion '  flowing  by ;  in  whose 
waters  he  nevertheless  refused  to  fish,  to  whose  rich  oyster- 
beds  the  dive  was  too  muddy  for  him.  Observe,  again,  with 
what  innate  hatred  of  Cant,  he  takes  for  himself,  and  offers 
to  others,  the  lowest  possible  view  of  his  business,  which  he 
followed  Avitli  such  nobleness.  Motive  for  writing  he  had 
none,  as  he  often  said,  but  money;  and  yet  he  wrote  so. 
Into  the  region  of  Poetic  Art  he  indeed  never  rose ;  there 
was  no  ideal  without  him,  avowing  itself  in  his  work :  the 
nobler  was  that  unavowed  ideal  which  lay  within  him,  and 
commanded,  saying.  Work  out  thy  Artisanship  in  the  spirit 
of  an  Artist !  They  who  talk  loudest  about  the  dignity  of 
Art,  and  fancy  that  they  too  are  Artistic  guild-brethren, 
and  of  the  Celestials,  —  let  them  consider  Avell  what  man- 
ner of  man  this  was,  who  felt  himself  to  be  only  a  hired 
day-laborer.  A  laborer  that  was  worthy  of  his  hire ;  that 
has  labored  not  as  an  eye-servant,  but  as  one  found  faith- 
ful !  Neither  was  Johnson  in  those  days  perhaps  wholly  a 
unique.  Time  was  when,  for  money,  you  might  have  ware : 
and   needed   not,  in  all  departments,  in  that  of   the  Epic 


148  Selections  from  Carlyle. 

Poem,  in  that  of  the  Blacking-bottle,  to  rest  content  with 
the  mere  2ie7'suasion  that  you  had  ware.  It  was  a  happier 
time.  But  as  yet  the  seventh  Apocalyptic  Bladder  (of 
Puffery)  had  not  been  rent  open,  —  to  whirl  and  grind,  as 
in  a  West-Indian  Tornado,  all  earthly  trades  and  things 
into  wreck,  and  dust,  and  consummation,  —  and  regenera- 
tion.    Be  it  quickly,  since  it  must  be !  — 

That  Mercy  can  dwell  only  with  Valor,  is  an  old  senti- 
ment or  proposition ;  which  in  Johnson  again  receives  con- 
firmation. Pew  men  on  record  have  had  a  more  merciful, 
tenderly  affectionate  nature  than  old  Samuel.  He  was 
called  the  Bear  ;  and  did  indeed  too  often  look,  and  roar,  like 
one  ;  being  forced  to  it  in  his  own  defence  :  yet  Avithin  that 
shaggy  exterior  of  his  there  beat  a  heart  warm  as  a  mother's, 
soft  as  a  little  child's.  Nay,  generally  his  very  roaring  was 
but  the  anger  of  affection :  the  rage  of  a  Bear,  if  you  will ; 
but  of  a  Bear  bereaved  of  her  whelps.  Touch  his  Religion, 
glance  at  the  Church  of  England,  or  the  Divine  Right ;  and 
he  was  upon  you !  These  things  were  his  Symbols  of  all 
that  was  good  and  precious  for  men ;  his  very  Ark  of  the 
Covenant :  whoso  laid  hand  on  them  tore  asunder  his  heart 
of  hearts.  Not  out  of  hatred  to  the  opponent,  but  of  love  to 
the  thing  opposed,  did  Johnson  grow  cruel,  fiercely  contra- 
dictory :  this  is  an  important  distinction ;  never  to  be  for- 
gotten in  our  censure  of  his  conversational  outrages.  But 
observe  also  with  what  humanity,  what  openness  of  love,  he 
can  attach  himself  to  all  things :  to  a  blind  old  woman,  to  a 
Doctor  Levett,  to  a  cat '  Hodge.'  ^  His  thoughts  in  the  latter 
part  of  his  life  were  frequently  employed  on  his  deceased 
friends  ;  he  often  muttered  these  or  suchlike  sentences : 
"  Poor  man !  and  then  he  died."  '  How  he  patiently  converts 
his  poor  home  into  a  Lazaretto  ;  endures,  for  long  years,  the 
contradiction  of  the  miserable  and  unreasonable  ;  with  him 
unconnected,  save  that  they  had  no  other  to  yield  them 
refuge !      Generous  old  man !     Worldly  possession  he  has 


BosivelVs  Life  of  Johnson.  149 

little  ;  yet  of  this  he  gives  freely  ;  from  his  own  hard-earned 
shilling,  the  half-pence  for  the  poor,  that  '  waited  his  coming 
out/  are  not  withheld :  the  poor  '  waited  the  coming  out '  of 
one  not  quite  so  poor !  A  Sterne  can  write  sentimentali- 
ties on  Dead  Asses:  Johnson  has  a  rough  voice;  but  he 
finds  the  wretched  Daughter  of  Vice  fallen  down  in  the 
streets;  carries  her  home  on  his  o^vn  shoulders,  and  like 
a  good  Samaritan  gives  help  to  the  help-needing,  worthy 
or  unworthy.  Ought  not  Charity,  even  in  that  sense,  to 
cover  a  multitude  of  sins  ?  Xo  Penny-a-week  Committee- 
Lady,  no  manager  of  Soup-Kitchens,  dancer  at  Charity- 
Balls,  was  this  rugged,  stern-visaged  man :  but  where, 
in  all  England,  could  there  have  been  found  another  soul 
so  full  of  Pity,  a  hand  so  heavenlike  bounteous  as  his  ? 
The  widow's  mite,  we  know,  was  greater  than  all  the  other 
gifts. 

Perhaps  it  is  this  divine  feeling  of  Affection,  throughout 
manifested,  that  principally  attracts  us  towards  Johnson.  A 
true  brother  of  men  is  he  ;  and  filial  lover  of  the  Earth ;  who, 
with  little  bright  spots  of  Attachment,  'where  lives  and 
works  some  loved  one,'  has  beautified  '  this  rough  solitary 
Earth  into  a  peopled  garden.'  Lichfield,  with  its  mostly 
dull  and  limited  inhabitants,  is,  to  the  last,  one  of  the  sunny 
islets  for  him:  Salve,  magna  parens  !  Or  read  those  Letters 
on  his  Mother's  death :  what  a  genuine  solemn  grief  and 
pity  lies  recorded  there;  a  looking  back  into  the  Past, 
unspeakably  mournful,  unspeakably  tender.  And  yet  calm, 
sublime ;  for  he  must  now  act,  not  look :  his  venerated 
Mother  has  been  taken  from  him  ;  but  he  must  now  write  a 
Rasselas  to  defray  her  funeral !  Again  in  this  little  inci- 
dent, recorded  in  this  Book  of  Devotion,  are  not  the  tones  of 
sacred  Sorrow  and  Greatness  deeper  than  in  many  a  blank- 
verse  Tragedy; — as,  indeed,  'the  fifth  act  of  a  Tragedy,' 
though  unrhymed,  does  '  lie  in  every  death-bed,  were  it  a 
peasant's,  and  of  straw  : ' 


150  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

'Sunday,  October  18,  1767.  Yesterday,  at  about  ten  in  the  morn- 
ing, I  took  my  leave  forever  of  my  dear  old  friend,  Catherine  Cham- 
bers, who  came  to  live  with  my  mother  about  1724,  and  has  been  but 
little  parted  from  us  since.  She  buried  my  father,  my  brother,  and  my 
mother.     She  is  now  fifty-eight  years  old. 

I  desired  all  to  withdraw  ;  then  told  her  that  we  were  to  part  for- 
ever; that  as  Christians,  we  should  part  with  prayer ;  and  that  I  would, 
if  she  was  willing,  say  a  short  prayer  beside  her.  She  expressed  great 
desire  to  hear  me ;  and  held  up  her  poor  hands  as  she  lay  in  bed,  with 
great  fervor,  while  I  prayed  kneeling  by  her.        *        *        * 

I  then  kissed  her.  She  told  me  that  to  part  was  the  greatest  pain 
she  had  ever  felt,  and  that  she  hoped  we  should  meet  again  in  a  bet- 
ter place.  I  expressed,  with  swelled  eyes  and  great  emotion  of  ten- 
derness, the  same  hopes.  We  kissed  and  parted  ;  I  humbly  hope,  to 
meet  again,  and  to  part  no  more.' 

Tears  trickling  down  the  granite  rock :  a  soft  well  of  Pity 
springs  within!  —  Still  more  tragical  is  this  other  scene: 
'Johnson  mentioned  that  he  could  not  in  general  accuse 
himself  of  having  been  an  undutiful  son.  "Once,  indeed/' 
said  he,  "  I  was  disobedient :  I  refused  to  attend  my  father 
to  Uttoxeter  market.  Pride  was  the  source  of  that  refusal, 
and  the  remembrance  of  it  was  painful.  A  few  years  ago 
I  desired  to  atone  for  this  fault."  '  — But  by  what  method? 
— What  method  was  now  possible?  Hear  it;  the  words 
are  again  given  as  his  own,  though  here  evidently  by  a 
less  capable  reporter: 

'  Madam,  I  beg  your  pardon  for  the  abruptness  of  my  departure  in 
the  morning,  but  I  was  compelled  to  it  by  conscience.  Fifty  years  ago. 
Madam,  on  this  day,  I  committed  a  breach  of  filial  piety.  My  father 
had  been  in  the  habit  of  attending  Uttoxeter  market,  and  opening  a 
stall  there  for  the  sale  of  his  Books.  Confined  by  indisposition,  he 
desired  me,  that  day,  to  go  and  attend  the  stall  in  his  place.  My 
pride  prevented  me;  I  gave  my  father  a  refusal.  —  And  now  today 
I  have  been  at  Uttoxeter ;  I  went  into  the  market  at  the  time  of  busi- 
ness, uncovered  my  head,  and  stood  with  it  bare,  for  an  hour,  on  the 
spot  where  my  father's  stall  used  to  stand.  In  contrition  I  stood, 
and  I  hope  the  penance  was  expiatory. ' 


BoswelVs  Life  of  Johnson,  151 

Who  does  not  figure  to  himself  this  spectacle,  amid  the 
'rainy  weather,  and  the  sneers,'  or  wonder,  'of  the  by- 
standers'? The  memory  of  old  Michael  Johnson,  rising 
from  the  far  distance;  sad-beckoning  in  the  'moonlight  of 
memory: '  how  he  had  toiled  faithfully  hither  and  thither; 
patiently  among  the  lowest  of  the  low ;  been  buffeted  and 
beaten  down,  yet  ever  risen  again,  ever  tried  it  anew  —  And 
oh,  when  the  wearied  old  man,  as  Bookseller,  or  Hawker, 
or  Tinker,  or  whatsoever  it  was  that  Fate  had  reduced  him 
to,  begged  help  of  thee  for  one  day, —  how  savage,  dia-. 
bolic,  Avas  that  mean  Vanity,  which  answered,  '  No ! '  He 
sleeps  now;  after  life's  fitful  fever,  he  sleeps  well:  but 
thou,  0  jNIerciless,  how  now  wilt  thou  still  the  sting  of  that 
remembrance?  —  Tlie  picture  of  Samuel  Johnson  standing 
bareheaded  in  the  market  there,  is  one  of  the  grandest  and 
saddest  we  can  paint.  Repentance !  Repentance !  he  pro- 
claims, as  with  passionate  sobs:  but  only  to  the  ear  of 
Heaven,  if  Heaven  will  give  him  audience :  the  earthly  ear 
and  heart  that  should  have  heard  it,  are  now  closed,  unre- 
sponsive forever. 

That  this  so  keen-loving,  soft-trembling  Affectionateness, 
the  inmost  essence  of  his  being,  must  have  looked  forth,  in 
one  form  or  another,  through  Johnson's  whole  character, 
practical  and  intellectual,  modifying  both,  is  not  to  be 
doubted.  Yet  through  what  singular  distortions  and  super- 
stitions, moping  melancholies,  blind  habits,  whims  about 
'entering  with  the  right  foot,'  and  'touching  every  post  as 
he  walked  along;  '  and  all  the  other  mad  chaotic  lumber 
of  a  brain  that,  with  sun-clear  intellect,  hovered  forever  on 
the  verge  of  insanity,  —  must  that  same  inmost  essence  have 
looked  forth;  unrecognizable  to  all  but  the  most  observant! 
Accordingly  it  was  not  recognized;  Johnson  passed  not  for 
a  fine  nature,  but  for  a  dull,  almost  brutal  one.  Might  not, 
for  example,  the  first-fruit  of  such  a  Lovingness,  coupled 
with  his  quick  Insight,  have  been  expected  to  be  a  pecul- 


152  Selections  fro7n   Carlyle. 

iarly  courteous  demeanor  as  man  among  men?  In  John- 
son's 'Politeness,'  which  he  often,  to  the  wonder  of  some, 
asserted  to  be  great,  there  was  indeed  somewhat  that  needed 
explanation.  Nevertheless,  if  he  insisted  always  on  hand- 
ing lady-visitors  to  their  carriage;  though  with  the  cer- 
tainty of  collecting  a  mob  of  gazers  in  Fleet  Street, —  as 
might  well  be,  the  beau  having  on,  by  way  of  court-dress, 
'his  rusty  brown  morning  suit,  a  pair  of  old  shoes  for  slip- 
pers, a  little  shrivelled  wig  sticking  on  the  top  of  his  head, 
and  the  sleeves  of  his  shirt  and  the  knees  of  his  breeches 
hanging  loose :  '  —  in  all  this  we  can  see  the  spirit  of  true 
Politeness,  only  shining  through  a  strange  medium.  Thus 
again,  in  his  apartments,  at  one  time,  there  were  unfortu- 
nately no  chairs.  'A  gentleman  who  frequently  visited  him 
whilst  writing  his  Idlers,  constantly  found  him  at  his  desk, 
sitting  on  one  with  three  legs;  and  on  rising  from  it,  he 
remarked  that  Johnson  never  forgot  its  defect;  but  would 
either  hold  it  in  his  hand,  or  place  it  with  great  composure 
against  some  support;  taking  no  notice  of  its  imperfection 
to  his  visitor,'  —  who  meanwhile,  we  suppose,  sat  upon 
folios,  or  in  the  sartorial  fashion.  'It  was  remarkable  in 
Johnson,'  continues  Miss  Reynolds  (Renny  dear),  'that  no 
external  circumstances  ever  prompted  him  to  make  any 
apology,  or  to  seem  even  sensible  of  their  existence. 
Whether  this  was  the  effect  of  philosophic  pride,  or  of 
some  partial  notion  of  his,  respecting  high-breeding,  is 
doubtful.'  That  it  ivas,  for  one  thing,  the  effect  of  genuine 
Politeness,  is  nowise  doubtful.  Not  of  the  Pharisaical 
Brummellean  Politeness,  which  would  suffer  crucifixion 
rather  than  ask  twice  for  soup:  but  the  noble  universal 
Politeness  of  a  man  that  knows  the  dignity  of  men,  and 
feels  his  own;  such  as  may  be  seen  in  the  patriarchal  bear- 
ing of  an  Indian  Sachem ;  such  as  Johnson  himself  exhib- 
ited, when  a  sudden  chance  brought  him  into  dialogue  with 
his  King.     To  us,  with  our  view  of  the  man,   it  nowise 


BosivelVs  Life  of  Johnson.  153 

appears  strange  that  he  should  have  boasted  himself  cunning 
in  the  laws  of  Politeness;  nor,  'stranger  still,'  habitually 
attentive  to  practise  them. 

More  legibly  is  this  influence  of  the  Loving  heart  to  be 
traced  in  his  intellectual  character.  What,  indeed,  is  the 
beginning  of  intellect,  the  first  inducement  to  the  exercise 
thereof,  but  attraction  towards  somewhat,  affection  for  it? 
Thus  too  who  ever  saw  or  will  see  any  true  talent,  not 
to  speak  of  genius,  the  foundation  of  which  is  not  goodness, 
love?  From  Johnson's  strength  of  Affection,  we  deduce 
many  of  his  intellectual  peculiarities ;  especially  that  threat- 
ening array  of  perversions,  known  under  the  name  of  'John- 
son's Prejudices.'  Looking  well  into  the  root  from  which 
these  sprang,  we  have  long  ceased  to  view  them  with  hos- 
tility, can  pardon  and  reverently  pity  them.  Coiisider  with 
what  force  early-imbibed  opinions  must  have  clung  to  a  soul 
of  this  Affection.  Those  evil-famed  Prejudices  of  his,  that 
Jacobitism,  Church-of-Englandism,  hatred  of  the  Scotch, 
belief  in  Witclies,  and  suchlike,  what  were  they  but  the 
ordinary  beliefs  of  well-doing,  well-meaning  provincial 
Englishmen  in  that  day?  First  gathered  by  his  Father's 
hearth,  round  the  kind  'country  fires  '  of  native  Stafford- 
shire, they  grew  with  his  growth  and  strengthened  with 
his  strength;  they  were  hallowed  by  fondest  sacred  recol- 
lections; to  part  with  them  was  parting  with  his  heart's 
blood.  If  the  man  who  has  no  strength  of  Affection, 
strength  of  Belief,  have  no  strength  of  Prejudice,  let 
him  thank  Heaven  for  it,  but  to  himself  take  small  thanks. 

Melancholy  it  was,  indeed,  that  the  noble  Johnson  could 
network  himself  loose  from  these  adhesions;  that  he  could 
only  purify  them,  and  wear  them  with  some  nobleness. 
Yet  let  us  understand  how  they  grew  out  from  the  very 
centre  of  his  being:  nay,  moreover,  how  they  came  to 
cohere  in  him  with  what  formed  the  business  and  worth  of 
his  Life,   the  sum  of  his  whole  Spiritual  Endeavor.     For 


154  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

it  is  on  the  same  ground  that  he  became  throughout  an 
Edifier  and  Eepairer,  not,  as  the  others  of  his  make  were, 
a  Puller-down;  that  in  an  age  of  universal  Scepticism, 
England  was  still  to  produce  its  Believer.  M^vk  too  his 
candor  even  here ;  while  a  Dr.  Adams,  with  placid  surprise, 
asks,  "  Have  we  not  evidence  enough  of  the  soul's  immor- 
tality?" Johnson  answers,  "I  wish  for  more." 

But  the  truth  is,  in  Prejudice,  as  in  all  things,  Johnson 
was  the  product  of  England;  one  of  those  ^ good  yeomen 
whose  limbs  were  made  in  England  ' :  alas,  the  last  of  such 
Invincibles,  their  day  being  now  done!  His  culture  is 
wholly  English ;  that  not  of  a  Thinker  but  of  a  '  Scholar : ' 
his  interests  are  wholly  English;  he  sees  and  knows  noth- 
ing but  England ;  he  is  the  John  Bull  of  Spiritual  Europe : 
let  him  lire,  love  him,  as  he  was  and  could  not  but  be! 
Pitiable  it  is,  no  doubt,  that  a  Samuel  Johnson  must  con- 
fute Hume's  irreligious  Philosophy  by  some  'story  from 
a  Clergyman  of  the  Bishopric  of  Durham ;  '  should  see 
nothing  in  the  great  Frederick  but  'Voltaire's  lackey;'  in 
Voltaire  himself  but  a  man  acerrimi  ingenii,  paucarum  liter- 
arum;  in  Rousseau  but  one  worthy  to  be  hanged;  and  in 
the  universal,  long-prepared,  inevitable  Tendency  of  Euro- 
pean Thought  but  a  green-sick  milkmaid's  crochet  of,  for 
variety's  sake,  'milking  the  Bull.'  Our  good,  dear  John! 
Observe  too  what  it  is  that  he  sees  in  the  city  of  Paris  :  no 
feeblest  glimpse  of  those  D'Alemberts  and  Diderots,  or  of 
the  strange  questionable  work  they  did;  solely  some  Bene- 
dictine Priests,  to  talk  kitchen-Latin  with  them  about 
Editiones  Prindpes.  "  Monsheer  Nongtongpaw  !  "  —  Our 
dear,  foolish  John:  yet  is  there  a  lion's  heart  within  him! 
—  Pitiable  all  these  things  were,  we  say;  yet  nowise  inex- 
cusable; nay,  as  basis  or  as  foil  to  much  else  that  was  in 
Johnson,  almost  venerable.  Ought  we  not,  indeed,  to 
honor  England,  and  English  Institutions  and  Way  of  Life, 
that  they  could  still  equip  such  a  man ;  could  furnish  him 


BosivelVs  Life  of  Johnson.  155 

in  heart  and  head  to  be  a  Samuel  Johnson,  and  yet  to  love 
them,  and  unyieldingly  light  for  them?  What  truth  and 
living  vigor  must  such  Institutions  once  have  had,  when, 
in  the  middle  of  the  Eighteenth  Century,  there  was  still 
enough  left  in  them  for  this ! 

It  is  worthy  of  note  that,  in  our  little  British  Isle,  the 
two  grand  Antagonisms  of  Europe  should  have  stood  em- 
bodied, under  their  very  highest  concentration,  in  two  men 
produced  simultaneously  among  ourselves.  Samuel  John- 
son and  David  Hume,  as  was  observed,  were  children  nearly 
of  the  same  year:  through  life  they  were  spectators  of  the 
same  Life-movement;  often  inhabitants  of  the  same  city. 
Greater  contrast,  in  all  things,  between  two  great  men, 
could  not  be.  Hume,  well-born,  competently  provided 
for,  whole  in  body  and  mind,  of  his  own  determination 
forces  a  way  into  Literature:  Johnson,  poor,  moonstruck, 
diseased,  forlorn,  is  forced  into  it  'with  the  bayonet  of 
necessity  at  his  back.'  And  what  a  part  did  they  sever- 
ally play  there!  As  Johnson  became  the  father  of  all 
succeeding  Tories;  so  was  Hume  the  father  of  all  succeed- 
ing Whigs,  for  his  own  Jacobitism  was  but  an  accident, 
as  worthy  to  be  named  Prejudice  as  any  of  Johnson's. 
Again,  if  Johnson's  culture  was  exclusively  English, 
Hume's,  in  Scotland,  became  European;  —  for  which 
reason  too  we  find  his  influence  spread  deeply  over  all 
quarters  of  Europe,  traceable  deeply  in  all  speculation, 
French,  German,  as  well  as  domestic;  while  Johnson's 
name,  out  of  England,  is  hardly  anywhere  to  be  met  with. 
In  spiritual  stature  they  are  almost  equal;  both  great, 
among  the  greatest:  yet  how  unlike  in  likeness!  Hume 
has  the  widest,  methodizing,  comprehensive  eye;  Johnson, 
the  keenest  for  perspicacity  and  minute  detail:  so  had, 
perhaps  chiefly,  their  education  ordered  it.  Neither  of 
the  two  rose  into  Poetry;  yet  both  to  some  approximation 
thereof:    Hume   to   something   of   an   Epic   clearness  and 


156  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

method,  as  in  his  delineation  of  the  Commonwealth  Wars ; 
Johnson  to  many  a  deep  Lyric  tone  of  plaintiveness  and 
impetuous  graceful  power,  scattered  over  his  fugitive  com- 
positions. Both,  rather  to  the  general  surprise,  had  a 
certain  rugged  Humor  shining  through  their  earnestness : 
the  indication,  indeed,  that  they  zoere  earnest  men,  and 
had  subdued  their  wild  world  into  a  kind  of  temporary 
home  and  safe  dwelling.  Both  were,  by  principle  and 
habit.  Stoics:  yet  Johnson  with  the  greater  merit,  for  he 
alone  had  very  much  to  triumph  over;  farther,  he  alone 
ennobled  his  Stoicism  into  Devotion.  To  Johnson,  Life  was 
as  a  Prison,  to  be  endured  with  heroic  faith:  to  Hume, 
it  was  little  more  than  a  foolish  Bartholomew-Fair  Show- 
booth,  with  the  foolish  crowdings  and  elbow ings  of  which, 
it  was  not  worth  while  to  quarrel ;  the  whole  would  break 
up,  and  be  at  liberty,  so  soon.  Both  realized  the  highest 
task  of  Manhood,  that  of  living  like  men;  each  died  not 
unfitly,  in  his  way:  Hume  as  one,  with  factitious,  half- 
false  gaiety,  taking  leave  of  what  was  itself  wholly  but  a 
Lie:  Johnson  as  one,  with  awe-struck,  yet  resolute  and 
piously  expectant  heart,"  taking  leave  of  a  Eeality,  to  enter 
a  Eeality  still  higher.  Johnson  had  the  harder  problem 
of  it,  from  first  to  last:  whether,  with  some  hesitation, 
we  can  admit  that  he  was  intrinsically  the  better- gifted, 
may  remain  undecided,  _ 

These  two  men  now  rest;  tH€L.one  in  Westminster  Abbey 
here;  the  other  in  the  Calton-Hill  Churchyard  of  Edin- 
burgh. Through  Life  they  did  not  meet:  as  contrasts, 
'like  in  unlike,'  love  each  other;  so  might  they  two  have 
loved,  and  communed  kindly,  —  had  not  the  terrestrial 
dross  and  darkness  that  was  in  them  withstood!  One 
day,  their  spirits,  what  Truth  was  in  each,  will  be  found 
working,  living  in  harmony  and  free  union,  even  here 
below.  They  were  the  two  half -men  of  their  time :  whoso 
should  combine  the  intrepid  Candor  and  decisive  scientific 


Bo8welVs  Life  of  Johnson.  15T 

Clearness  of  Hume,  with  the  Keverence,  the  Love  and 
devout  Humility  of  Johnson,  were  the  whole  man  of  a  new 
time.  Till  such  whole  man  arrive  for  us,  and  the  dis- 
tracted time  admit  of  such,  might  the  Heavens  but  bless 
poor  England  with  half- men  worthy  to  tie  the  shoe-latchets 
of  these,  resembling  these  even  from  afar!  Be  both  atten- 
tively regarded,  let  the  true  Effort  of  both  prosper;  —and 
for  the  present,  both  take  our  affectionate  farewell ! 


ON   HEROES   AND   HERO-WORSHIP. 

[3Iay,  1840.] 

mXRODUCTION. 

We  have  undertaken  to  discourse  here  for  a  little  on 
Great  Men,  their  manner  of  appearance  in  our  world's 
business,  how  they  have  shaped  themselves  in  the  world's 
history,  what  ideas  men  formed  of  them,  what  work  they 
did;  —  on  Heroes,  namely,  and  on  their  reception  and  per- 
formance; what  I  call  Hero-worsliip  and  the  Heroic  in 
human  affairs.  Too  evidently  this  is  a  large  topic;  deserv- 
ing quite  other  treatment  than  we  can  expect  to  give  it  at 
present.  A  large  topic;  indeed,  an  illimitable  one;  wide 
as  Universal  History  itself.     For,  as  I  take  it,  Universal 

/History,  the  history  of  what  man  has  accomplished  in  this 
world,  is  at  bottom  the  History  of  the  Great  Men  who  have 
worked  here.  They  were  the  leaders  of  men,  these  great 
ones ;  the  modelers,  patterns,  and  in  a  wide  sense  creators, 
of  whatsoever  the  general  mass  of  men  contrived  to  do  or 
to  attain;  all  things  that  we  see  standing  accomplished  in 
the  world  are  properly  the  outer  material  result,  the  practi- 
cal realization  and  embodiment,  of  Thoughts  that  dwelt  in 
the  Great  Men  sent  into  the  world :  the  soul  of  the  whole 
world's  history,  it  may  justly  be  considered,  were  the  his- 

Vtory  of  these.  Too  clearly  it  is  a  topic  we  shall  do  no 
justice  to  in  this  place ! 

One  comfort  is  that  Great  Men,  taken  up  in  any  way,  are 
profitable  company.     We  cannot  look,  however  imperfectly, 

158 


Heroes    and   Hero-ivorship.  159 

upon  a  great  man,  without  gaining  something  by  him.  He 
is  the  living  light-fountain,  which  it  is  good  and  pleasant 
to  be  near.  The  light  which  enlightens,  which  has  enlight- 
ened the  darkness  of  the  world;  and  this  not  as  a  kindled 
lamp  only,  but  rather  as  a  natural  luminary  shining  by  the 
gift  of  Heaven :  a  flowing  light-fountain,  as  I  say,  of  native 
original  insight,  of  manhood  and  heroic  nobleness;  —  in 
whose  radiance  all  souls  feel  that  it  is  well  with  them.  On 
any  terms  whatsoever,  you  will  not  grudge  to  wander  in 
such  neighborhood  for  a  while.  These  Six  classes  of  Heroes, 
chosen  out  of  widely-distant  countries  and  epochs,  and  in 
mere  external  figure  differing  altogether,  ought,  if  we  look 
faithfully  at  them,  to  illustrate  several  things  for  us. 
Could  we  see  tliem  well,  we  should  get  some  glimpses  into 
the  very  marrow  of  the  world's  history.  How  happy, 
could  I  but,  in  any  measure,  in  such  times  as  these,  make 
manifest  to  you  the  meanings  of  Heroism;  the  divine  rela- 
tion (for  I  may  well  call  it  such)  which  in  all  times  unites 
a  Great  Man  to  other  men :  and  thus,  as  it  were,  not  exhaust 
my  subject,  but  so  much  as  break  ground  on  it !  At  all 
events,  I  must  make  the  attempt. 

********* 
Surely  it  seems  a  very  strange-looking  thing,  this 
Paganism;  almost  inconceivable  to  us  in  these  days.  A 
bewildering,  inextricable  jungle  of  delusions,  confusions, 
falsehoods,  and  absurdities,  covering  the  whole  field  of 
Life !  A  thing  that  fills  us  with  astonishment,  almost,  if  it 
were  possible,  with  incredulity, —  for  truly  it  is  not  easy  to 
understand  that  sane  men  could  ever  calmly,  with  their 
eyes  open,  believe  and  live  by  such  a  set  of  doctrines. 
That  men  should  have  worshiped  their  poor  fellow-man  as 
a  God,  and  not  him  only,  but  stocks  and  stones,  and  all 
manner  of  animate  and  inanimate  objects;  and  fashioned 
for  themselves  such  a  distracted  chaos  of  hallucinations 
by  way  of  Theory  of  the  Universe :  all  this  looks  like  an 


160  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

incredible  fable.  Nevertheless  it  is  a  clear  fact  tliat  tliey 
did  it.  Sucli  hideous  inextricable  jungle  of  misworships, 
misbeliefs,  men,  made  as  we  are,  did  actually  hold  by,  and 
live  at  home  in.  This  is  strange.  Yes,  we  may  pause  in 
sorrow  and  silence  over  the  depths  of  darkness  that  are 
in  man,  if  we  rejoice  in  the  heights  of  purer  vision  he  has 
attained  to.  Such  things  were  and  are  in  man;  in  all  men; 
in  us  too. 

********* 
You  remember  that  fancy  of  Plato's,  of  a  man  who  had 
grown  to  maturity  in  some  dark  distance,  and  was  brought 
on  a  sudden  into  the  upper  air  to  see  the  sun  rise.  What 
would  his  wonder  be,  his  rapt  aston.ishment,  at  the  sight  we 
daily  witness  with  indifference!  /^With  the  free  open  sense 
of  a  child,  yet  with  the  ripe  faculty  of  a  man,  his  whole 
heart  would  be  kindled  by  that  sight;  he  would  discern  it 
well  to  be  Godlike;  his  soul  would  fall  down  in  worship 
before  it.  Now,  just  such  a  childlike  greatness  Avas  in  the 
primitive  nations.  The  first  Pagan  Thinker  among  rude 
men,  the  first  man  that  began  to  think,  was  precisely  this 
child-man  of  Plato's.  Simple,  open  as  a  child,  yet  with 
the  depth  and  strength  of  a  man.  Nature  had  as  yet  no 
name  to  him;  he  had  not  yet  united  under  a  name  the 
infinite  variety  of  sights,  sounds,  shapes,  and  motions, 
which  we  npw  collectively  name  Universe,  Nature,  or  the 
^like, —  and  jso  with  a  name  dismiss  it  from  us.  To  the 
wild  deep-lilearted  man  all  was  yet  new,  not  veiled  under 
names  or  formulas;  it  stood  naked,  flashing-in  on  him 
there,  beautiful,  awful,  unspeakable.  Nature  was  to  this 
man  what  to  the  Thinker  and  Prophet  it  forever  is,  preter- 
natural.  This  green,  flowery,  rock-built  earth,  the  trees, 
the  mountains,  rivers,  many-sounding  seas ;  —  that  great 
deep  sea  of  azure  that  swims  overhead;  the  winds  sweeping 
through  it;  the  black  cloud  fashioning  itself  together,  now 
pouring  out  fire,  now  hail  and  rain;  Avhat  is  it?     Ay,  what? 


Heroes   and   Her o-wor ship.  161 

At  bottom  we  do  not  yet  know;  we  can  never  know  at  all. 
It  is  not  by  our  superior  insight  that  we  escape  the  diffi- 
culty; it  is  by  our  superior  levity,  our  inattention,  our 
tvant  of  insight.  It  is  by  7iot  thinking  that  we  cease  to 
wonder  at  it.  Hardened  round  us,  encasing  wholly  every 
notion  we  form,  is  a  wrappage  of  traditions,  hearsays,  mere 
luords.  We  call  that  fire  of  the  black  thunder-cloud  'elec- 
tricity, '  and  lecture  learnedly  about  it,  and  grind  the  like 
of  it  out  of  glass  and  silk:  but  what  is  it?  What  made  it? 
Whence  comes  it?  Whither  goes  it?  Science  has  done/ 
much  for  us ;  but  it  is  a  poor  science  that  would  hide  from  ^ 
us  the  great  deep  sacred  infinitude  of  Nescience,  whither 
we  can  never  penetrate,  on  which  all  science  swims  as  a 
mere  superficial  film.  This  world,  after  all  our  science  and 
sciences,  is  still  a  miracle;  wonderful,  inscrutable,  magical, 
and  more,  to  whosoever  will  think  of  it. 

That  great  mystery  of  Time,  were  there  no  other;  the-^ 
illimitable,  silent,  never-resting  thing  called  Time,  rolling, 
rushing  on,  swift,  silent,  like  an  all-embracing  ocean-tide, 
on  which  we  and  all  the  Universe  swim  like  exhalations, 
like  apparitions  which  are  and  then  are  not :  this  is  forever 
very  literally  a  miracle;  a  thing  to  strike  us  dumb,  —  for 
we  have  no  word  to  speak  about  it.  This  Universe,  ah  me! 
—  what  could  the  wild  man  know  of  it;  what  can  we  yet 
know?  That  it  is  a  Force,  and  thousandfold  Complexity 
of  Forces;  a  Force  which  is  not  ive.  That  is  all;  it  is  not 
we,  it  is  altogether  different  from  us.  Force,  Force,  every- 
where Force ;  Ave  ourselves  a  mysterious  Force  in  the  centre 
of  that.  'There  is  not  a  leaf  rotting  on  the  highway  but 
has  Force  in  it:  how  else  could  it  rot?'  Nay,  surely,  to 
the  Atheistic  Thinker,  if  such  a  one  were  possible,  it  must 
be  a  miracle  too,  this  huge  illimitable  whirlwind  of  Force 
which  envelops  us  here;  never-resting  whirlwind,  high  as 
Immensity,  old  as  Eternity.  What  is  it?  God's  creation, 
the   religious   people   answer;    it   is  the   Almighty   God's! 


162  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

i 

Atheistic  science  babbles  poorly  of  it,  with  scientific 
nomenclatures,  experiments,  and  what-not,  as  if  it  were  a 
poor  dead  thing,  to  be  bottled-up  in  Leyden  jars  and  sold 
over  counters :  but  the  natural  sense  of  man,  in  all  times, 
if  he  will  honestly  apply  his  sense,  proclaims  it  to  be  a 
living  thing, —  ah,  an  unspeakable,  godlike  thing;  towards 
which  the  best  attitude  for  us,  after  never  so  much  science, 
is  awe,  devout  prostration,  and  humility  of  soul;  worship, 
if  not  in  words,  then  in  silence. 

But  now  I  remark  farther :  What  in  such  a  time  as  ours 
it  requires  a  Prophet  or  Poet  to  teach  us,  namely,  the  strip- 
ping-off  of  those  poor  undevout  wrappages,  nomenclatures, 
and  scientific  hearsays, —  this,  the  ancient  earnest  soul,  as 
yet  unencumbered  with  these  things,  did  for  itself.  The 
world,  which  is  now  divine  only  to  the  gifted,  was  then 
divine  to  whosoever  would  turn  his  eye  upon  it.  He  stood 
bare  before  it,  face  to  face.  'All  was  Godlike  or  G-od: '  — 
Jean  Paul  still  finds  it  so;  the  giant  Jean  Paul,  who  has 
power  to  escape  out  of  hearsays :  but  there  then  were  no 
hearsays.  .Canopus  shining  down  over  the  desert,  with  its 
blue  diamond  brightness  (that  wild  blue  spirit-like  bright- 
ness, far  brighter  than  we  ever  witness  here),  would  pierce 
into  the  heart  of  the  wild  Ishmaelitish  man,  whom  it  was 
guiding  through  the  solitary  waste  there.  To  his  wild 
heart,  with  all  feelings  in  it,  with  no  speech  for  any  feeling, 
it  might  seem  a  little  eye,  that  Canopus,  glancing-out  on 
him  from  the  great  deep  Eternity;  revealing  the  inner 
Splendor  to  him.  Cannot  we  understand  how  these  men 
z(;o?'s7uped  Canopus;  became  what  we  call  Sabeans,  worship- 
ing the  stars?  Such  is  to  me  the  secret  of  all  forms  of 
Paganism.  Worship  is  transcendent  wonder;  wonder  for  "^^ 
Avhich  there  is  now  no  limit  or  measure;  that  is  worship.  \ 
To  these  primeval  men,  all  things  and  everything  they  saw  ' 
exist  beside  them  were  an  emblem  of  the  Godlike,  of  some  ' 
God. 


Heroes    and   Hero-ioorship.  163 

And  look  what  perennial  fibre  of  truth  was  in  that.  To 
us  also,  through  every  star,  through  every  blade  of  grass,  is 
not  a  God  made  visible,  if  we  will  open  our  minds  and  eyes? 
We  do  not  worship  in  that  way  now :  but  is  it  not  reckoned 
still  a  merit,  proof  of  what  we  call  a  'poetic  nature,'  that 
we  recognize  how  every  object  has  a  divine  beauty  in  it; 
how  every  object  still  verily  is  'a  window  through  which 
we  may  look  into  Infinitude  itself '  ?  He  that  can  discern 
the  loveliness  of  things,  we  call  him  Poet,  Painter,  Man  of 
Genius,  gifted,  lovable.  These  poor  Sabeans  did  even  what 
he  does, —  in  their  own  fashion.  That  they  did  it,  in  what 
fashion  soever,  was  a  merit:  better  than  what  the  entirely 
stupid  man  did,  what  the  horse  and  camel  did,  —  namely, 
nothing! 

^ut  now  if  all  things  whatsoever  that  we  look  upon  are 
emblems  to  us  of  the  Highest  God,  I  add  that  more  so  than 
any  of  them  is  man  such  an  emblem.  You  have  heard 
of  St.  Chrysostom's  celebrated  saying  in  reference  to  the 
Shekinah,  or  Ark  of  Testimony,  visible  Revelation  of  God, 
among  the  Hebrews :  "  The  true  Shekinah  is  Man !  "  Yes, 
it  is  even  so:  this  is  no  vain  phrase;  it  is  veritably  so. 
The  essence  of  our  being,  the  mystery  in  us  that  calls  itself 
"I,"  —  ah,  what  words  have  we  for' such  things?  —  is  a 
breath  of  Heaven;  the  Highest  Being  reveals  himself  in 
manj  This  body,  these  faculties,  this  life  of  ours,  is  it 
not  all  as  a  vesture  for  that  Unnamed?  'There  is  but  one 
Temple  in  the  Universe,'  says  the  devout  Kovalis,  'and 
that  is  the  Body  of  Man.  Nothing  is  holier  than  that  high 
form.  Bending  before  men  is  a  reverence  done  to  this 
Revelation  in  the  Flesh.  We  touch  Heaven  when  we  lay 
our  hand  on  a  human  body ! '  This  sounds  much  like  a 
mere  flourish  of  rhetoric;  but  it  is  not  so.  If  well  medi- 
tated, it  will  turn  out  to  be  a  scientific  fact;  the  expres- 
sion, in  such  words  as  can  be  had,  of  the  actual  truth  of 
the  thing.      We  are  the  miracle  of  miracles,  —  the  great 


164  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

inscrutable  mystery  of  God.  We  cannot  understand  it,  we 
know  not  how  to  speak  of  it;  but  we  may  feel  and  know, 
if  we  like,  that  it  is  verily  so. 

Well ;  these  truths  were  once  more  readily  felt  than  now. 
The  young  generations  of  the  world,  who  had  in  them  the 
freshness  of  young  children,  and  yet  the  depth  of  earnest 
men,  who  did  not  think  that  they  had  finished-off  all  things 
in  Heaven  and  Earth  by  merely  giving  them  scientific 
names,  but  had  to  gaze  direct  at  them  there,  with  awe  and 
wonder:  they  felt  better  what  of  divinity  is  in  Man  and 
Nature;  —  they,  without  being  mad,  could  ivorship  Nature, 
and  Man  more  than  anything  else  in  Nature.  Worship, — 
that  is,  as  I  said  above,  admire  without  limit :  this,  in  the 
full  use  of  their  faculties,  with  all  sincerity  of  heart,  they 
could  do.  I  consider  Hero-worship  to  be  the  grand  modi- 
fying element  in  that  ancient  system  of  thought.  What  I 
called  the  perplexed  jungle  of  Paganism  sprang,  we  may 
say,  out  of  many  roots:  every  admiration,  adoration  of  a 
star  or  natural  object,  was  a  root  or  fibre  of  a  root;  but 
■Hero-worship  is  the  deepest  root  of  all;  the  tap-root,  from 
which  in  a  great  degree  all  the  rest  were  nourished  and 
grown. 

And  now,  if  worship  even  of  a  star  had  some  meaning  in 
it,  how  much  more  might  that  of  a  Hero!  Worship  of  a 
Hero  is  transcendent  admiration  of  a  Great  Man.  I  say 
great  men  are  still  admiijable ;  I  say  there  is,  at  bottom, 
nothing  else  admirable!  No  nobler  feeling  than  this  of 
admiration  for  one  higher 'than  himself  dwells  in  the  breast 
of  man.  It  is  to  this  hour,  and  at  all  hours,  the  vivifying 
influence  iin  man's  life.  Religion  I  find  stand  upon  it;  not 
Paganism  only,  but  far  higher  and  truer  religions, —  all 
religion  hitherto  known.  Hero-worship,  heartfelt  prostrate 
►admiration,  submission,  burning,  boundless,  for  a  noblest 
godlike  Form  of  Man^ —  is  not  that  the  germ  of  Christianity 
itself  ?     The  greatest  of  all  Heroes  is  One  —  whom  we  do 


Heroes   and   Hero-icorship.  165 

not  name  here!  Let  sacred  silence  meditate  that  sacred 
matter;  you  will  find  it  the  ultimate  perfection  of  a 
principle  extant  throughout  man's  whole  history  on 
earth. 

Or  coming  into  lower,  less  ^^?ispeakable  provinces,  is  not 
all  Loyalty  akin  to  religious  Faith  also?  Faith  is  loyalty 
to  some  inspired  Teacher,  some  spiritual  Hero.  And  wliat 
therefore  is  loyalty  proper,  the  life-breath  of  all  society, 
but  an  elEuence  of  Hero-worship,  submissive  admiration  for 
the  truly  great  ?  Society  is  founded  on  Hero-worship.  All  ' 
dignities  of  rank,  on  which  human  association  rests,  are  ^ 
what  we  may  call  a  ^eroarchy  (Government  of  Heroes),  — 
or  a  Hierarchy,  for  it  is  ^sacred  '  enough  withal!  The  Duke 
means  Dux,  Leader;  King  is  Kon-ning,  Kan-ning,  Man  that 
knows  or  cans.  Society  everywhere  is  some  representation, 
not  insupportably  inaccurate,  of  a  graduated  Worship  of 
Heroes; — reverence  and  obedience  done  to  men  really  great 
and  wise.  Not  msupportably  inaccurate,  I  say!  They  are 
all  as  bank-notes,  these  social  dignitaries,  all  representing 
gold;  — and  several  of  them,  alas,  always  are  forged  notes. 
We  can  do  with  some  forged,  false  notes;  with  a  good  many 
even;  but  not  with  all,  or  the  most  of  them,  forged!  No: 
there  have  to  come  revolutions  then ;  cries  of  Democracy, 
Liberty  and  Equality,  and  I  know  not  what :  —  the  notes 
being  all  false,  and  no  gold  to  be  had  for  them,  people  take 
to  crying  in  their  despair  that  there  is  no  gold,  that  there 
never  was  any!  —  'Gold,'  Hero-worship,  is  nevertheless,  as 
it  was  always  and  everywhere,  and  cannot  cease  till  man 
himself  ceases. 

I  am  well  aware  that  in  these  days  Hero-worship,  the 
thing  I  call  Hero-worship,  professes  to  have  gone  out, 
and  finally  ceased.  This,  for  reasons  which  it  will  be 
worth  while  some  time  to  inquire  into,  is  an  age  that  as  it 
were  denies  the  existence  of  great  men;  denies  the  desir- 
ableness of  great  men.     Show  our  critics  a  great  man,  a 


166  Selections  from    Carlyle. 

Luther  for  example,  they  begin  to  what  they  call  'account ' 
for  him;  not  to  worship  him,  but  take  the  dimensions  of 
him, —  and  bring  him  out  to  be  a  little  kind  of  man!  He 
was  the  'creature  of  the  Time,'  they  say;  the  Time  called 
him  forth,  the  Time  did  everything,  he  nothing  —  but  what 
we,  the  little  critic,  could  have  done  too!  This  seems  to 
me  but  melancholy  work.  The  Time  call  forth?  AlaSj  we 
have  known  Times  call  loudly  enough  for  their  great  man; 
but  not  find  him  when  they  called!  He  was  not  there; 
Providence  had  not  sent  him ;  the  Time,  calling  its  loudest, 
had  to  go  down  to  confusion  and  wreck,  because  he  would 
not  come  when  called. 

Eor,  if  we  will  think  of  it,  no  Time  need  have  gone  to 
ruin,  could  it  have  found  a  man  great  enough,  a  man  wise 
and  good  enough :  wisdom  to  discern  truly  what  the  Time 
wanted,  valor  to  lead  it  on  the  right  road  thither;  these 
are  the  salvation  of  any  Time.  But  I  liken  common  lan- 
guid Times,  with  their  unbelief,  distress,  perplexity,  with 
their  languid  doubting  characters  and  embarrassed  circum- 
stances, impotently  crumbling-down  into  ever  worse  dis- 
tress towards  final  ruin ;  —  all  this  I  liken  to  dry  dead  fuel, 
waiting  for  the  lightning  out  of  Heaven  that  shall  kindle 
it.  The  great  man,  with  his  free  force  direct  out  of  God's 
own  hand,  is  the  lightning.  His  word  is  the  wise  heal- 
ing word  which  all  can  believe  in.  All  blazes  round  him 
now,  when  he  has  once  struck  on  it,  into  fire  like  his  own. 
The  dry  mouldering  sticks  are  thought  to  have  called  him 
forth.  They  did  want  him  greatly ;  but  as  to  calling  him 
forth  — !  —  Those  are  critics  of  small  vision,  I  think,  who 
cry:  "See,  is  it  not  the  sticks  that  made  the  fire?"  No 
sadder  proof  can  be  given  by  a  man  of  his  own  littleness 
than  disbelief  in  great  men.  There  is  no  sadder  symptom 
of  a  generation  than  such  general  blindness  to  the  spiritual 
lightning,  with  faith  only  in  the  heap  of  barren  dead  fuel. 
It  is  the  last  consummation  of  unbelief.     In  all  exDOchs  of 


Heroes  and  Hero-worsliip.  167 

the  world's  history,  we  shall  find  the  Great  Man  to  havei 
been  the  indispensable  saviour  of  his  epoch;  the  lightning, 
without  which  the  fuel  never  would  have  burnt.     The  His- 
tory of   the  World,  I   said   already,   is  the  Biography  of 
Great  Men. 

Such  small  critics  do  what  they  can  to  promote  unbelief 
and  universal  spiritual  paralysis:  but  happily  they  cannot 
always  completely  succeed.  In  all  times  it  is  possible  for 
a  man  to  rise,  great  enough  to  feel  that  they  and  their 
doctrines  are  chimeras  and  cobwebs.  And,  what  is  notable, 
in  no  time  whatever  can  they  entirely  eradicate  out  of 
living  men's  hearts  a  certain  altogether  peculiar  reverence 
for  Great  Men;  genuine  admiration,  loyalty,  adoration, 
however  dim  and  perverted  it  may  be.  Hero-worship 
endures  forever  while  man  endures.  Bos  well  venerates 
his  Johnson  right  truly,  even  in  the  Eighteenth  century. 
The  unbelieving  French  believe  in  their  Voltaire;  and 
burst-out  round  him  into  very  curious  Hero-worship,  in 
that  last  act  of  his  life  when  they  'stifle  him  under  roses.' 
It  has  always  seemed  to  me  extremely  curious,  this  of  Vol- 
taire. Truly,  if  Christianity  be  the  highest  instance  of 
Hero-worship,  then  we  may  find  here  in  Voltaireism  one* 
of  the  lowest !  He  whose  life  was  that  of  a  kind  of  Anti- 
christ, does  again  on  this  side  exhibit  a  curious  contrast. 
No  people  ever  were  so  little  prone  to  admire  at  all  as  those 
Trench  of  Voltaire.  Persiflage  was  the  character  of  their 
whole  mind;  adoration  had  nowhere  a  place  in  it.  Yet  see! 
The  old  man  of  Ferney  comes  up  to  Paris ;  an  old,  totter- 
ing, infirm  man  of  eighty-four  years.  They  feel  that  he 
too  is  a  kind  of  Hero ;  that  he  has  spent  his  life  in  oppos- 
ing error  and  injustice,  delivering  Calases,  unmasking 
hypocrites  in  high  places ;  —  in  short  that  he  too,  though  in 
a  strange  way,  has  fought  like  a  valiant  man.  They  feel 
withal  that,  if  ^persiflage  be  the  great  thing,  there  never  was 
such  apersifleur.     He  is  the  realized  ideal  of  every  one  of 


168  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

them;  the  thing  they  are  all  wanting  to  be;  of  all  French- 
men the  most  French.  He  is  properly  their  god, —  such 
god  as  they  are  fit  for.  Accordingly,  all  persons,  from  the 
Queen  Antoinette  to  the  Douanier  at  the  Porte  St.  Denis, 
do  they  not  worship  him?  People  of  quality  disguise  them- 
selves as  tavern-waiters.  The  Maitre  de  Poste,  with  a 
broad  oath,  orders  his  Postillion,  "  Va  hon  train;  thou  art 
driving  M.  de  Voltaire."  At  Paris  his  carriage  is  *the 
nucleus  of  a  comet,  whose  train  fills  whole  streets.'  The 
ladies  pluck  a  hair  or  two  from  his  fur,  to  keep  it  as  a 
sacred  relic.  There  was  nothing  highest,  beautifulest, 
noblest  in  all  France,  that  did  not  feel  this  man  to  be 
higher,  beautifuler,  nobler. 

Yes,  from  Norse  Odin  to  English  Samuel  Johnson,  from 
the  divine  Founder  of  Christianity  to  the  withered  Pontiff 
of  Encyclopedism,  in  all  times  and  places,  the  Hero  has 
been  worshiped.  It  will  ever  be  so.  We  all  love  great 
men;  love,  venerate,  and  bow  down  submissive  before 
great  men:  nay,  can  we  honestly  bow  down  to  anything 
else?  Ah,  does  not  every  true  man  feel  that  he  is  himself 
made  higher  by  doing  reverence  to  what  is  really  above 
him?  No  nobler  or  more  blessed  feeling  dwells  in  man's 
heart.  And  to  me  it  is  very  cheering  to  consider  that  no 
sceptical  logic,  or  general  triviality,  insincerity,  and  aridity 
of  any  Time  and  its  influences,  can  destroy  this  noble 
inborn  loyalty  and  worship  that  is  in  man.  In  times  of 
unbelief,  which  soon  have  to  become  times  of  revolution, 
much  down-rushing,  sorrowful  decay  and  ruin  is  visible 
to  everybody.  For  myself  in  these  days,  I  seem  to  see 
in  this  indestructibility  of  Hero-worship  the  everlasting 
adamant,  lower  than  which  the  confused  wreck  of  revo- 
lutionary things  cannot  fall.  The  confused  wreck  of 
things  crumbling  and  even  crashing  and  tumbling  all 
round  us  in  these  revolutionary  ages,  will  get  down 
so  far  ;    no  farther.     It   is   an  eternal  corner-stone,   from 


Heroes  and  Hero-ivorsliip.  169 

which  they  can  begin  to  buihl  themselves  up  again. 
That  man,  in  some  sense  or  other,  worships  Heroes  ; 
that  we  all  of  us  reverence  and  must  ever  reverence 
Great  Men:  this  is,  to  me,  the  living  rock  amid  all 
rushings-down  whatsoever;  —  the  one  fixed  point  in  mod- 
ern revolutionary  history,  otherwise  as  if  bottomless  and 
shoreless. 


THE   HERO   AS   POET. 

DANTE;    SHAKSPEARE. 

The  Hero  as  Divinity,  the  Hero  as  Prophet,  are  pro- 
ductions of  okl  ages;  not  to  be  repeated  in  the  new. 
They  j)i'esuppose  a  certain  rudeness  of  conception  which 
the  progress  of  mere  scientific  knowledge  puts  an  end  to. 
There  needs  to  be,  as  it  were,  a  Avorld  vacant,  or  almost 
vacant,  of  scientific  forms,  if  men  in  their  loving  wonder 
are  to  fancy  their  fellow-man  either  a  god  or  one  speak- 
ing with  the  voice  of  a  god.  Divinity  and  Prophet  are 
past.  We  are  now  to  see  our  Hero  in  the  less  ambitious, 
but  also  less  questionable,  character  of  Poet ;  a  character 
which  does  not  pass.  The  Poet  is  a  heroic  figure  belong- 
ing to  all  ages ;  whom  all  ages  possess,  when  once  he  is 
produced;  whom  the  newest  age  as  the  oldest  may  pro- 
duce;—  and  will  produce  always  when  Nature  pleases. 
Let  Nature  send  a  Hero-soul;  in  no  age  is  it  other  than 
possible  that  he  may  be  shaped  into  a  Poet. 

Hero,  Prophet,  Poet,  —  many  different  names,  in  dif- 
ferent times  and  places,  do  we  give  to  Great  Men ;  accord- 
ing to  varieties  we  note  in  them,  according  to  the  sphere 
in  which  they  have  disi^layed  themselves !  AVe  might 
give  many  more  names,  on  this  same  principle.  I  will 
remark  again,  however,  as  a  fact  not  unimportant  to  be 
understood,  that  the  different  sphere  constitutes  the  grand 
origin  of  such  distinction;  that  the  Hero  can  be  Poet, 
Prophet,  King,  Priest,  or  what  you  will,  according  to  the 

170 


Heroes  and  Hero-ivorsldp.  171 

kind  of  AYorld  he  finds  himself  born  into.  I  confess,  I 
have  no  notion  of  a  truly  great  man  that  could  not  be  all 
sorts  of  men.!  The  Poet  who  could  merely  sit  on  a  chair, 
and  compose  stanzas,  would  never  make  a  stanza  worth 
much.  He  could  not  sing  the  Heroic  warrior,  unless  he 
himself  were  at  least  a  Heroic  warrior  too.  I  fancy  there 
is  in  him  the  Politician,  the  Thinker,  Legislator,  Philo- 
sopher ;  —  in  one  or  the  other  degree,  he  could  have  been^ 
he  is,  all  these.  So  too  I  cannot  understand  how  a  Mirabeau, 
with  that  great  glowing  heart,  with  the  fire  that  was  in  it, 
with  the  bursting  tears  that  were  in  it,  could  not  have 
written  verses,  tragedies,  poems,  and  touched  all  hearts 
in  that  way,  had  his  course  of  life  and  education  led  him 
thitherward.  The  grand  fundamental  character  is  that  of 
Great  Man ;  that  the  man  be  great.  Napoleon  has  words 
in  him  which  are  like  Austerlitz  Battles.  Louis  Fourteenth's 
Marshals  are  a  kind  of  poetical  men  withal ;  the  things 
Turenne  says  are  full  of  sagacity  and  geniality,  like  sayings 
of  Samuel  Johnson.  The  great  heart,  the  clear  deep-seeing 
eye ;  there  it  lies  :  no  man  whatever,  in  what  province  soever, 
can  prosper  at  all  without  these.  Petrarch  and  Boccaccio 
did  diplomatic  messages,  it  seems,  quite  well :  one  can 
easily  believe  it ;  they  had  done  things  a  little  harder  than 
these !  Burns,  a  gifted  song-writer,  might  have  made  a 
still  better  Mirabeau,  Shakspeare,  —  one  knoAvs  not  what 
he  could  not  have  made,  in  the  supreme  degree. 

True,  there  are  aptitudes  of  Nature  too.  Nature  does  not 
make  all  great  men,  more  than  all  other  men,  in  the  self- 
same mould.  Varieties  of  aptitude  doubtless ;  but  infinitely 
more  of  circumstance  ;  and  far  oftenest  it  is  the  latter  only 
that  are  looked  to.  But  it  is  as  with  common  men  in  the 
learning  of  trades.  You  take  any  man,  as  yet  a  vague 
capability  of  a  man,  who  could  be  any  kind  of  craftsman ; 
and  make  him  into  a  smith,  a  carpenter,  a  mason:  he  is 
then  and  thenceforth,  that  and  nothing  else.     And  if,  as 


172  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

Addison  complains,  you  sometimes  see  a  street-porter 
staggering  under  his  load  on  spindleslianks,  and  near  at 
hand  a  tailor  with  the  frame  of  a  Samson  handling  a  bit 
of  cloth  and  small  Whitechapel  needle,  —  it  cannot  be 
considered  that  aptitude  of  Nature  alone  has  been  consulted 
here  either !  —  The  Great  Man  also,  to  what  shall  he  be 
bound  apprentice?  Given  your  Hero,  is  he  to  become 
Conqueror,  King,  Philosopher,  Poet  ?  It  is  an  inexplicably 
complex  controversial-calculation  between  the  world  and 
him  !  He  will  read  the  world  and  its  laws ;  the  world  with 
its  laws  will  be  there  to  be  read.  What  the  world,  on  this 
matter,  shall  permit  and  bid  is,  as  we  said,  the  most 
important  fact  about  the  world.  — 

Poet  and  Prophet  differ  greatly  in  our  loose  modern 
notions  of  them.  In  some  old  languages,  again,  the  titles 
are  synonymous ;  Vates  means  both  Prophet  and  Poet :  and 
indeed  at  all  times,  Prophet  and  Poet,  well  understood,  have 
much  kindred  of  meaning.  Fundamentally,  indeed,  they  are 
still  the  same ;  in  this  most  important  respect  especially, 
That  they  have  penetrated  both  of  them  into  the  sacred  mys- 
tery of  the  Universe  ;  what  Goethe  calls  '  the  open  secret.' 
"  Which  is  the  great  secret  ?  "  asks  one.  —  "  The  open  secret,'^ 
—  open  to  all,  seen  by  almost  none  !  That  divine  mystery, 
which  lies  everywhere  in  all  Beings,  'the  Divine  Idea  of  the 
World,  that  which  lies  at  the  bottom  of  Appearance,'  as  Fichte 
styles  it ;  of  which  all  Appearance,  from  the  starry  sky  to  the 
grass  of  the  field,  but  especially  the  Appearance  of  Man  and 
his  work,  is  but  the  vesture,  the  embodiment  that  renders  it 
visible.  This  divine  mystery  is  in  all  times  and  in  all 
places ;  veritably  is.  In  most  times  and-  places  it  is  greatly 
overlooked;  and  the  Universe,  definable  always  in  one  or 
the  other  dialect  as  the  realized  Thought  of  God,  is  con- 
sidered a  trivial,  inert  commonplace  matter,  —  as  if,  says 
the  Satirist,  it  were  a  dead  thing,  which  some  upholsterer 
had  put  together !     It  could  do  no  good,  at  present,  to  speak 


Heroes  and  Hero-ivorsJiip.  173 

much  about  this ;  but  it  is  a  pity  for  every  one  of  us  if  we 
do  not  know  it,  live  ever  in  the  knowledge  of  it.  Keally  a 
most  mournful  pity ;  —  a  failure  to  live  at  all,  if  we  live 
otherwise ! 

But  now,  I  say,  whoever  may  forget  this  divine  mystery, 
the  Vates,  Avhether  Prophet  or  Poet,  has  penetrated  into  it ; 
is  a  man  sent  hither  to  make  it  more  impressively  known  to 
us.  That  always  is  his  message ;  he  is  to  reveal  that  to  us, 
—  that  sacred  mystery  which  he,  more  than  others,  lives  ever 
present  with.  While  others  forget  it,  he  knows  it ;  —  I 
might  say,  he  has  been  driven  to  know  it ;  without  consent 
asked  of  liim,  he  finds  himself  living  in  it,  bound  to  live  in 
it.  Once  more,  here  is  no  Hearsay,  but  a  direct  Insight 
and  Belief ;  this  man  too  could  not  help  being  a  sincere 
man !  Whosoever  may  live  in  the  shows  of  things,  it  is  for 
him  a  necessity  of  nature  to  live  in  the  very  fact  of  things. 
A  man,  once  more,  in  earnest  with  the  Universe,  though  all 
others  were  but  toying  with  it.  He  is  a  Vates,  first  of  all,  in 
virtue  of  being  sincere.  So  far.  Poet  and  Prophet,  partici- 
pators in  the  '  open  secret,'  are  one. 

With  respect  to  their  distinction  again :  The  Vates 
Prophet,  we  might  say,  has  seized  that  sacred  mystery 
rather  on  the  moral  side,  as  Good  and  Evil,  Duty  and  Prohi- 
bition ;  the  Vates  Poet,  on  what  the  Germans  call  the 
aesthetic  side,  as  Beautiful,  and  the  like.  The  one  we  may 
call  a  revealer  of  what  we  are  to  do,  the  other  of  what  we 
are  to  love.  But  indeed  these  two  i:>rovinces  run  into  one 
another,  and  cannot  be  disjoined.  The  Prophet  too  has  his 
eye  on  what  we  are  to  love :  how  else  shall  he  know  what 
it  is  we  are  to  do  ?  The  highest  Voice  ever  heard  on  this 
earth  said  withal,  '^Consider  the  lilies  of  the  field;  they 
toil  nol,  neither  do  they  spin :  yet  Solomon  in  all  his  glory 
was  not  arrayed  like  one  of  these."  A  glance,  that,  into 
the  deepest  deep  of  Beauty.  '  The  lilies  of  the  field,'  — 
dressed  finer  than  earthly  princes,  springing-up  there  in  the 


174  Selections  froyn   Carlyle. 

humble  furrow-field;  a  beautiful  eye  looking-out  on  you, 
from  the  great  inner  Sea  of  Beauty  !  How  could  the  rude 
Earth  make  these,  if  her  Essence,  rugged  as  she  looks  and 
is,  were  not  inwardly  Beauty  ?  In  this  point  of  view,  too,  a 
saying  of  Goethe's,  which  has  staggered  several,  may  have 
meaning:  ^The  Beautiful,'  he  intimates,  'is  higher  than 
the  Good ;  the  Beautiful  includes  in  it  the  Good.'  The  true 
Beautiful ;  which,  however,  I  have  said  somewhere,  '  differs 
from  the  false  as  Heaven  does  from  Vauxhall ! '  So  much 
for  the  distinction  and  identity  of  Poet  and  Prophet.  — 

Jn  ancient  and  also  in  modern  periods,  we  find  a  few  Poets 
who  are  accounted  perfect ;  whom  it  were  a  kind  of  treason 
to  find  fault  with.  This  is  noteworthy ;  this  is  right :  yet  in 
strictness  it  is  only  an  illusion.  At  bottom,  clearly  enough, 
there  is  no  perfect  Poet !  A  vein  of  Poetry  exists  in  the 
hearts  of  all  men ;  no  man  is  made  altogether  of  Poetry. 
We  are  all  poets  when  we  read  a  poem  well.  The  '  imagina- 
tion that  shudders  at  the  Hell  of  Dante,'  — is  not  that  the 
same  faculty,  weaker  in  degree,  as  Dante's  own  ?  ISTo  one 
but  Shakspeare  can  embody,  out  of  Saxo  Grammaticus,  the 
story  of  Hamlet  as  Shakspeare  did:  but  every  one  models 
some  kind  of  story  out  of  it ;  every  one  embodies  it  better 
or  worse.  We  need  not  spend  time  in  defining.  Where 
there  is  no  specific  difference,  as  between  round  and  square, 
all  definition  must  be  more  or  less  arbitrary.  A  man  that 
has  so  much  more  of  the  poetic  element  developed  in  him  as 
to  have  become  noticeable,  will  be  called  Poet  by  his  neigh- 
bors. World-Poets  too,  those  whom  we  are  to  take  for  per- 
fect Poets,  are  settled  by  critics  in  the  same  way.  One  who 
rises  so  far  above  the  general  level  of  Poets  will,  to  such  and 
such  critics,  seem  a  Universal  Poet;  as  he  ought  to  do. 
And  yet  it  is,  and  must  be,  an  arbitrary  distinction.  All 
Poets,  all  men,  have  some  touches  of  the  Universal ;  no  man 
is  wholly  made  of  that.  Most  Poets  are  very  soon  for- 
gotten :  but  not  the  noblest  Shakspeare  or  Homer  of  them 


Heroes  and  Hero-ivorship.  175 

can  be  remembered  forever;  —  a  clay  comes  when  he  too  is 
not! 

Nevertheless,  you  will  say,  there  must  be  a  difference  be- 
tween true  Poetry  and  true  Speech  not  poetical :  what  is  the 
difference  ?  On  this  point  many  things  have  been  written, 
especially  by  late  German  Critics,  some  of  which  are  not  very 
intelligible  at  first.  They  say,  for  example,  that  the  Poet  has 
an  infimtude  in  him;  communicates  an  Unendliclikeit,  a  cer- 
tain character  of  'infinitude,'  to  whatsoever  he  delineates. 
This,  though  not  very  precise,  yet  on  so  vague  a  matter  is 
worth  remembering :  if  well  meditated,  some  meaning  will 
gradually  be  found  in  it.  For  my  own  part,  I  find  consider- 
able meaning  in  the  old  vulgar  distinction  of  Poetry  being 
metrical,  having  music  in  it,  being  a  Song.  Truly,  if  pressed 
to  give  a  definition,  one  might  say  this  as  soon  as  anything 
else  :  '  If  your  delineation  be  authentically  musical,  musical 
not  in  word  only,  but  in  heart  and  substance,  in  all  the 
thoughts  and  utterances  of  it,  in  the  whole  conception  of  it, 
then  it  will  be  poetical ;  if  not,  not.' —  Musical :  how  much 
lies  in  that !  A  musical  thought  is  one  spoken  by  a  mind 
that  has  penetrated  into  the  inmost  heart  of  the  thing  ;  de- 
tected the  inmost  mystery  of  it,  namely,  the  melody  that 
lies  hidden  in  it ;  the  inward  harmony  of  coherence  which 
is  its  soul,  whereby  it  exists,  and  has  a  right  to  be,  here  in 
this  world.  All  inmost  things,  we  may  say,  are  melodious  ; 
naturally  utter  themselves  in  Song.  The  meaning  of  Song 
goes  deep.  Who  is  there  that,  in  logical  words,  can  express 
the  effect  music  has  on  us  ?  A  kind  of  inarticulate  unfath- 
omable speech,  which  leads  us  to  the  edge  of  the  Infinite, 
and  lets  us  for  moments  gaze  into  that ! 

Nay,  all  speech,  even  the  commonest  speech,  has  some- 
thing of  song  in  it :  not  a  parish  in  the  world  but  has  its 
parish-accent ;  —  the  rhythm  or  tune  to  which  the  people 
there  sing  what  they  have  to  say  !  Accent  is  a  kind  of  chant- 
ing ;  all  men  have  accent  of  their  own,  —  though  they  only 


176  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

notice  that  of  others.  Observe  too  how  all  passionate  lan- 
guage does  of  itself  become  musical, —  with  a  finer  music  than 
the  mere  accent ;  the  speech  of  a  man  even  in  zealous  anger 
becomes  a  chant,  a  song.  All  deep  things  are  Song.  It  seems 
somehow  the  very  central  essence  of  us,  Song ;  as  if  all  the 
rest  were  but  wrappages  and  hulls  !  The  primal  element  of 
us ;  of  us,  and  of  all  things.  The  Greeks  fabled  of  Sphere- 
Harmonies  :  it  was  the  feeling  they  had  of  the  inner  struc- 
ture of  Nature  ;  that  the  soul  of  all  her  voices  and  utterances 
was  perfect  music.  Poetry,  therefore,  we  will  call  musical 
Thought.  The  Poet  is  he  who  thinks  in  that  manner.  At  bot- 
tom, it  turns  still  on  power  of  intellect ;  it  is  a  man's  sincer- 
ity and  depth  of  vision  that  makes  him  a  Poet.  See  deep 
enough,  and  you  see  musically ;  the  heart  of  Nature  heing 
everywhere  music,  if  you  can  only  reach  it. 

The  Vates  Poet,  with  his  melodious  Apocalypse  of  Nature, 
seems  to  hold  a  poor  rank  among  us,  in  comparison  with  the 
Vates  Prophet ;  his  function,  and  our  esteem  of  him  for  his 
function,  alike  slight.  The  Hero  taken  as  Divinity ;  the 
Hero  taken  as  Prophet ;  then  next,  the  Hero  taken  only  as 
Poet :  does  it  not  look  as  if  our  estimate  of  the  Great  Man, 
epoch  after  epoch,  were  continually  diminishing  ?  We  take 
him  first  for  a  god,  then  for  one  god-inspired ;  and  now  in 
the  next  stage  of  it,  his  most  miraculous  word  gains  from 
us  only  the  recognition  that  he  is  a  Poet,  beautiful  verse- 
maker,  man  of  genius,  or  suchlike !  —  It  looks  so ;  but  I  per- 
suade myself  that  intrinsically  it  is  not  so.  If  we  consider 
well,  it  will  perhaps  appear  that  in  man  still  there  is  the 
same  altogether  peculiar  admiration  for  the  Heroic  Gift,  by 
what  name  soever  called,  that  there  at  any  time  was. 

I  should  say,  if  we  do  not  now  reckon  a  Great  Man  liter- 
ally divine,  it  is  that  our  notions  of  God,  of  the  supreme  un- 
attainable Fountain  of  Splendor,  Wisdom,  and  Heroism,  are 
ever  rising  higher;  not  altogether  that  our  reverence  for 
these  qualities,  as  manifested  in  our  like,  is  getting  lower. 


Heroes  and  Hero-ivorsMp.  177 

This  is  worth  taking  thought  of.  Sceptical  Dilettantism, 
the  curse  of  these  ages,  a  curse  which  will  not  last  forever, 
does  indeed  in  this  the  highest  province  of  human  things,  as 
in  all  provinces,  make  sad  work ;  and  our  reverence  for  great 
men,  all  crippled,  blinded,  paralytic,  as  it  is,  comes  out  in 
poor  plight,  hardly  recognizable.  Men  worship  the  shows  of 
great  men ;  the  most  disbelieve  that  there  is  any  reality  of 
great  men  to  worship.  The  dreariest,  fatalest  faith  ;  believ- 
ing which,  one  would  literally  despair  of  human  things. 
Nevertheless  look,  for  example,  at  Napoleon  !  A  Corsican 
lieutenant  of  artillery ;  that  is  the  show  of  liim :  yet  is  he 
not  obeyed,  icorshiped  after  his  sort,  as  all  the  Tiaraed  and 
Diademed  of  the  world  put  together  could  not  be  ?  High 
Duchesses,  and  ostlers  of  inns,  gather  round  the  Scottish  rus- 
tic. Burns ;  —  a  strange  feeling  dwelling  in  each  that  they 
never  heard  a  man  like  this ;  that,  on  the  whole,  this  is  the 
man !  In  the  secret  heart  of  these  people  it  still  dimly  reveals 
itself,  though  there  is  no  accredited  way  of  uttering  it  at  pres- 
ent, that  this  rustic,  with  his  black  brows  and  flashing  sun- 
eyes,  and  strange  words  moving  laughter  and  tears,  is  of  a 
dignity  far  beyond  all  others,  incommensurable  with  all 
others.  Do  not  we  feel  it  so  ?  But  now,  were  Dilettantism, 
Scepticism,  Triviality,  and  all  that  sorrowful  brood,  cast-out 
of  us,  —  as,  by  God's  blessing,  they  shall  one  day  be  ;  were 
faith  in  the  shows  of  things  entirely  swept-out,  replaced  by 
clear  faith  in  the  things,  so  that  a  man  acted  on  the  impulse 
of  that  only,  and  counted  the  other  non-extant ;  what  a  new, 
livelier  feeling  towards  this  Burns  were  it ! 

Nay,  here  in  these  ages,  such  as  they  are,  have  we  not 
two  mere  Poets,  if  not  deified,  yet  we  may  say  beatified? 
Shakspeare  and  Dante  are  Saints  of  Poetry ;  really,  if  we 
will  think  of  it,  canonized,  so  that  it  is  impiety  to  meddle 
with  them.  The  unguided  instinct  of  the  world,  working 
across  all  these  perverse  impediments,  has  arrived  at  such 
result.     Dante  and  Shakspeare  are  a  peculiar  Two.     They 


178  Selections  froyn   Carlyle. 

dwell  apart,  in  a  kind  of  royal  solitude ;  none  equal,  none 
second  to  them  :  in  the  general  feeling  of  the  world,  a  cer- 
tain transcendentalism,  a  glory  as  of  complete  perfection, 
invests  these  two.  They  are  canonized,  though  no  Pope  or 
Cardinals  took  hand  in  doing  it !  Such,  in  spite  of  every 
perverting  influence,  in  the  most  unheroic  times,  is  still  our 
indestructible  reverence  for  heroism.  —  We  will  look  a  little 
at  these  Two,  the  Poet  Dante  and  the  Poet  Shakspeare : 
what  little  it  is  permitted  us  to  say  here  of  the  Hero  as 
Poet  will  most  fitly  arrange  itself  in  that  fashion. 

Many  volumes  have  been  written  by  w^ay  of  commentary 
on  Dante  and  his  Book ;  yet,  on  the  whole,  with  no  great 
result.  His  Biography  is,  as  it  were,  irrecoverably  lost 
for  us.  An  unimportant,  wandering,  sorrow-stricken  man, 
not  much  note  was  taken  of  him  while  he  lived ;  and  the 
most  of  that  has  vanished,  in  the  long  space  that  now 
intervenes.  It  is  five  centuries  since  he  ceased  writing  and 
living  here.  After  all  commentaries,  the  Book  itself  is 
mainly  what  we  know  of  him.  The  Book ;  —  and,  one  might 
add,  that  Portrait  commonly  attributed  to  Giotto,  which, 
looking  on  it,  you  cannot  help  inclining  to  think  genuine, 
whoever  did  it.  To  me  it  is  a  most  touching  face ;  perhaps, 
of  all  faces  that  I  know,  the  most  so.  Lonely  there,  painted 
as  on  vacancy,  with  the  simple  laurel  wound  round  it ;  the 
deathless  sorrow  and  pain,  the  known  victory  which  is  also 
deathless ;  —  significant  of  the  whole  history  of  Dante  I  I 
think  it  is  the  mournfulest  face  that  ever  was  painted  from 
reality ;  an  altogether  tragic,  heart-affecting  face.  There 
is  in  it,  as  foundation  of  it,  the  softness,  tenderness,  gen- 
tle affection  as  of  a  child;  but  all  this  is  as  if  congealed 
into  sharp  contradiction,  into  abnegation,  isolation,  proud 
hopeless  pain.  A  soft  ethereal  soul  looking-out  so  stern, 
implacable,  grim-trenchant,  as  from  imprisonment  of  thick- 
ribbed  ice !     Withal  it  is  a  silent  pain  too,  a  silent  scornful 


Heroes  and  Hero-icorsJiip.  179 

one ;  tlie  lip  is  curled  in  a  kind  of  godlike  disdain  of  the 
tiling  that  is  eating-out  his  heart,  —  as  if  it  were  withal 
a  mean  insignificant  thing,  as  if  he  whom  it  had  power 
to  torture  and  strangle  were  greater  than  it.  The  face 
of  one  wholly  in  protest,  and  lifelong  unsurrendering  bat- 
tle, against  the  world.  Affection  all  converted  into  indig- 
nation: an  implacable  indignation;  slow,  equable,  silent, 
like  that  of  a  god  !  The  eye  too :  it  looks-out  as  in  a  kind 
of  surprise,  a  kind  of  inquiry.  Why  the  world  was  of  such 
a  sort  ?  This  is  Dante :  so  he  looks,  this  '  voice  of  ten  silent 
centuries,'  and  sings  us  ^lis  mystic  unfathomable  song.' 

The  little  that  we  know  of  Dante's  Life  corresponds  well 
enough  with  this  Portrait  and  this  Book.  He  was  born  at 
Florence,  in  the  upper  class  of  society,  in  the  year  1265. 
His  education  was  the  best  then  going ;  much  school-divinity, 
Aristotelian  logic,  some  Latin  classics,  —  no  inconsiderable 
insight  into  certain  provinces  of  things :  and  Dante,  with 
his  earnest  intelligent  nature,  we  need  not  doubt,  learned, 
better  than  most,  all  that  was  learnable.  He  has  a  clear 
cultivated  understanding,  and  of  great  subtlety;  this  best 
fruit  of  education  he  had  contrived  to  realize  from  these 
scholastics.  He  knows  accurately  and  well  what  lies  close 
to  him  ;  but,  in  such  a  time,  without  printed  books  or  free 
intercourse,  he  could  not  know  well  what  was  distant :  the 
small  clear  light,  most  luminous  for  what  is  near,  breaks 
itself  into  singular  cliiarosmiro  striking  on  what  is  far  off. 
This  was  Dante's  learning  from  the  schools.  In  life,  he  had 
gone  through  the  usual  destinies ;  been  twice  out  campaign- 
ing as  a  soldier  for  the  Florentine  State ;  been  on  embassy  ; 
had  in  his  thirty -fifth  year,  by  natural  gradation  of  talent 
and  service,  become  one  of  the  Chief  Magistrates  of  Florence. 
He  had  met  in  boyhood  a  certain  Beatrice  Portinari,  a  beau- 
tiful little  girl  of  his  own  age  and  rank,  and  grown-up  thence- 
forth in  partial  sight  of  her,  in  some  distant  intercourse 
with  her.     All  readers  know  his  graceful  affecting  account 


180  Selections  from   Carlyle, 

of  this ;  and  then  of  their  being  parted ;  of  her  being  wedded 
to  another,  and  of  her  death  soon  after.  She  makes  a  great 
figure  in  Dante's  Poem ;  seems  to  have  made  a  great  figure 
in  his  life.  Of  all  beings  it  might  seem  as  if  she,  held  apart 
from  him,  far  apart  at  last  in  the  dim  Eternity,  were  the 
only  one  he  had  ever  with  his  whole  strength  of  affection 
loved.  She  died :  Dante  himself  was  wedded ;  but  it  seems 
not  happily,  far  from  happily.  I  fancy  the  rigorous  earnest 
man,  with  his  keen  excitabilities,  Avas  not  altogether  easy  to 
make  happy. 

We  will  not  complain  of  Dante's  miseries :  had  all  gone 
right  with  him  as  he  wished  it,  he  might  have  been  Prior, 
Podesta,  or  whatsoever  they  call  it,  of  Florence,  well  accepted 
among  neighbors,  —  and  the  world  had  Avanted  one  of  the 
most  notable  Avords  ever  spoken  or  sung.  Florence  Avould 
have  had  another  prosperous  Lord  Mayor ;  and  the  ten  dumb 
centuries  continued  voiceless,  and  the  ten  other  listening 
centuries  (for  there  Avill  be  ten  of  them  and  more)  had  no 
Dicina  Commedia  to  hear !  We  Avill  complain  of  nothing. 
A  nobler  destiny  was  appointed  for  this  Dante;  and  he, 
struggling  like  a  man  led  toAvards  death  and  crucifixion, 
could  not  help  fulfilling  it.  Give  him  the  choice  of  his  hap- 
piness !  He  knew  not,  more  than  Ave  do,  Avhat  Avas  really 
happy,  what  Avas  really  miserable. 

In  Dante's  Priorship,  the  Guelf-Ghibelline,  Bianchi-Neri, 
or  some  other  confused  disturbances  rose  to  such  a  height, 
that  Dante,  A\diose  party  had  seemed  the  stronger,  Avas  Avith 
his  friends  cast  unexpectedly  forth  into  banishment ;  doomed 
thenceforth  to  a  life  of  Avoe  and  Avandering.  His  property 
was  all  confiscated  and  more;  he  had  the  fiercest  feeling 
that  it  Avas  entirely  unjust,  nefarious  in  the  sight  of  God 
and  man.  He  tried  Avhat  was  in  him  to  get  reinstated ;  tried 
even  by  Avarlike  sur^^risal,  Avith  arms  in  his  hand:  but  it 
would  not  do;  bad  only  had  become  Avorse.  There  is  a 
record,  I  believe,  still  extant  in  the  Florence  Archives,  doom- 


Heroes  and  Hero-ivorsliip.  181 

ing  this  Dante,  wheresoever  caught,  to  be  burnt  alive.  Burnt 
alive  ;  so  it  stands,  they  say :  a  very  curious  civic  document. 
Another  curious  document,  some  considerable  number  of 
years  later,  is  a  Letter  of  Dante's  to  the  Florentine  Magis- 
trates, written  in  answer  to  a  milder  proposal  of  theirs,  that 
he  should  return  on  condition  of  apologizing  and  paying  a 
fine.  He  answers,  with  fixed  stern  pride  :  '''  If  I  cannot  re- 
turn without  calling  myself  guilty,  I  will  never  return,  nun- 
quam  revertar.^' 

For  Dante  there  was  now  no  home  in  this  world.  He 
wandered  from  patron  to  patron,  from  place  to  place :  prov- 
ing, in  his  own  bitter  words,  '  How  liard  is  the  path,  Coine  ^ 
duro  caUe.'  The  wretched  are  not  cheerful  company.  Dante, 
poor  and  banished,  with  his  proud  earnest  nature,  with  his 
moody  humors,  was  not  a  man  to  conciliate  men.  Petrarch 
reports  of  him  that  being  at  Can  della  Scala's  court,  and 
blamed  one  day  for  his  gloom  and  taciturnity,  he  answered  in 
no  courtier-like  way.  Delia  Scala  stood  among  his  courtiers, 
with  mimes  and  buffoons  {nehulones  ac  liistrioyies)  making 
him  heartily  merry  ;  when,  turning  to  Dante,  he  said :  "  Is 
it  not  strange,  now,  that  this  poor  fool  should  make  himself 
so  entertaining ;  while  you,  a  wise  man,  sit  there  day  after 
day,  and  have  nothing  to  amuse  us  with  at  all  ?  "  Dante 
answered  bitterly :  "  iSTo,  not  strange ;  your  Highness  is  to 
recollect  the  Proverb,  i?A:e  to  Like;''  —  given  the  amuser, 
£__the  amusee  must  also  be  given!  Such  a  man,  with  his  proud 
silent  ways,  with  his  sarcasms  and  sorrows,  was  not  made 
to  succeed  at  court.  By  degrees,  it  came  to  be  evident  to 
him  that  he  had  no  longer  any  resting-place,  or  hope  of 
benefit,  in  this  earth.  The  earthly  world  had  cast  him 
forth,  to  wander,  wander  ;  no  living  heart  to  love  him  now ; 
for  his  sore  miseries  there  was  no  solace  here. 

The  deeper  naturally  would  the  Eternal  World  impress 
itself  on  him  ;  that  awful  reality  over  which,  after  all,  this 
Time-Avorld,  with  its  Florences  and  banishments,  only  flut- 


182  Selections  from    Carlyle. 

ters  as  an  unreal  shadow.  Florence  thou  shalt  never  see : 
but  Hell  and  Purgatoiy  and  Heaven  thou  shalt  surely  see ! 
AVhat  is  Florence,  Can  della  Scala,  and  the  World  and  Life 
altogether  ?  Eterxity  :  thither,  of  a  truth,  not  elsewhither, 
art  thou  and  all  things  bound !  The  great  soul  of  Dante, 
homeless  on  earth,  made  its  home  more  and  more  in  that 
awful  other  world.  Naturally  his  thoughts  brooded  on  that, 
as  on  the  one  fact  important  for  him.  P)odied  or  bodiless, 
it  is  the  one  fact  important  for  all  men  :  —  but  to  Dante,  in 
that  age,  it  was  bodied  in  fixed  certainty  of  scientific  shape ; 
he  no  more  doubted  of  that  Maleholge  Pool,  that  it  all  la}^ 
there  with  its  gloomy  circles,  with  its  alti  guai,  and  that  he 
himself  should  see  it,  than  we  doubt  that  we  should  see 
Constantinople  if  we  went  thither.  Dante's  heart,  long 
filled  with  this,  brooding  over  it  in  speechless  thought  and 
awe,  bursts  forth  at  length  into  '  mystic  unfathomable  song ; ' 
and  this  his  Divirie  Comechf,  the  most  remarkable  of  all 
modern  Bocks,  is  the  result. 

It  must  have  been  a  great  solacement  to  Dante,  and  was, 
as  we  can  see,  a  proud  thought  for  him  at  times.  That  he, 
here  in  exile,  could  do  this  work ;  that  no  Florence,  nor  no 
man  or  men,  could  hinder  him  from  doing  it,  or  even  much 
help  him  in  doing  it.  He  knew  too,  partly,  that  it  was 
great ;  the  greatest  a  man  could  do.  '  If  thou  follow  thy 
star,  jSe  ta  segui  tua  stella,^  —  so  could  the  Hero,  in  his  for- 
sakenness, in  his  extreme  need,  still  say  to  himself  :  '  Follow 
thou  thy  star,  thou  shalt  not  fail  of  a  glorious  haven ! ' 
The  labor  of  Avriting,  we  find,  and  indeed  could  know  other- 
wise, was  great  and  painful  for  him  ;  he  says,  '  This  Book, 
which  has  made  me  lean  for  many  years.'  Ah  yes,  it  was 
won,  all  of  it,  with  pain  and  sore  toil,  —  not  in  sport,  but  in 
grim  earnest.  His  Book,  as  indeed  most  good  Books  are, 
has  been  written,  in  many  senses,  with  his  heart's  blood. 
It  is  his  whole  history,  this  Book.  He  died  after  finishing 
it ;  not  yet  very  old,  at  the  age  of  fifty-six  ;  —  broken-hearted 


Heroes  and  Herp-icorship.  183 

rather,  as  is  said.  He  lies  buried  in  his  death-city  Ravenna  : 
Hie  claudor  Dantes  patriis  extorris  ah  oris.  The  Florentines 
begged  back  his  body,  in  a  century  after ;  the  Eavenna 
people  would  not  give  it.  '  Here  am  I  Dante  laid,  shut-out 
from  my  native  shores.' 

I  said,  Dante's  Poem  was  a  Song  :  it  is  Tieck  who  ca  s  it 
^a  mystic  unfathomable  Song;'  and  such  is  literally  the 
character  of  it.  Coleridge  remarks  very  pertinently  some- 
where, that  wherever  you  find  a  sentence  musically  worded, 
of  true  rhythm  and  melody  in  the  words,  there  is  something 
deep  and  good  in  the  meaning  too.  For  body  and  soul, 
word  and  idea,  go  strangely  together  here  as  everywhere. 
Song :  we  said  before,  it  was  the  Heroic  of  Speech !  All 
old  Poems,  Homer's  and  the  rest,  are  authentically  Songs. 
I  would  say,  in  strictness,  that  all  right  Poems  are  5  that 
whatsoever  is  not  sung  is  properly  no  Poem,  but  a  piece  of 
Prose  cramped  into  jingling  lines,  —  to  the  great  injury  of 
the  grammar,  to  the  great  grief  of  the  reader,  for  most  part ! 
What  we  want  to  get  at  is  the  tJiought  the  man  had,  if  he 
had  any :  Avhy  should  he  twist  it  into  jingle,  if  he  coidd 
speak  it  out  plainly  ?  It  is  only  when  the  heart  of  him  is 
rapt  into  true  passion  of  melody,  and  the  very  tones  of  him, 
according  to  Coleridge's  remark,  become  musical  by  the 
greatness,  depth,  and  music  of  his  thoughts,  that  we  can 
give  him  right  to  rhyme  and  sing ;  that  we  call  him  a 
Poet,  and  listen  to  him  as  the  Heroic  of  Speakers,  —  whose 
speech  is  Song.  Pretenders  to  this  are  many;  and  to  an 
earnest  reader,  I  doubt,  it  is  for  most  part  a  very  melan- 
choly, not  to  say  an  insupportable  business,  that  of  reading 
rhyme !  Phyme  that  had  no  inward  necessity  to  be 
rhymed ;  —  it  ought  to  have  told  us  plainly,  without  any 
jingle,  what  it  was  aiming  at.  I  would  advise  all  men  who 
can  speak  their  thought,  not  to  sing  it ;  to  understand  that, 
in  a  serious  time,  among  serious  men,  there  is  no  vocation 
in  them  for  singing  it.     Precisely  as  we  love  the  true  song. 


184  Selections  from    Carlyle. 

and  are  charmed  by  it  as  by  something  divine,  so  shall  we 
hate  the  false  song,  and  account  it  a  mere  wooden  noise ; 
a  thing  hollow,  superfluous :  altogether  an  insincere  and 
offensive  thing.  I  give  Dante  my  highest  praise  when  I 
say  of  his  Divine  Comedy  that  it  is,  in  all  senses,  genuinely 
a  Song. 

Perhaps  one  would  say,  intensity,  with  the  much  that 
"depends  on  it,  is  the  prevailing  character  of  Dante's 
genius.  Dante  does  not  come  before  us  as  a  large  catholic 
mind;  rather  as  a  narrow,  and  even  sectarian  mind:  it 
is  partly  the  fruit  of  his  age  and  position,  but  partly  too 
of  his  own  nature.  His  greatness  has,  in  all  senses,  con- 
centered itself  into  fiery  emphasis  and  depth.  He  is 
world-great  not  because  he  is  world-wide,  but  because  he 
is  world-deep.  Through  all  objects  he  pierces  as  it  were 
•down  into  the  heart  of  Being.  I  know  nothing  so  intense 
as  Dante. 

Dante's  Hell,  Purgatory,  Paradise,  are  a  symbol  withal, 
an  emblematic  representation  of  his  Belief  about  this  Uni- 
verse:—  some  Critic  in  a  future  age,  like  those  Scandina- 
vian ones  the  other  day,  who  has  ceased  altogether  to  think 
as  Dante  did,  may  find  this  too  all  an  'Allegory,'  perhaps 
an  idle  Allegory!  It  is  a  sublime  embodiment,  or  sub- 
limest,  of  the  soul  of  Christianity.  It  expresses,  as  in 
huge,  world-wide,  architectural  emblems,  how  the  Chris- 
tian Dante  felt  Good  and  Evil  to  be  the  two  polar  elements 
of  this  Creation,  on  Avhich  it  all  turns;  that  these  two 
differ  not  by  preferahility  of  one  to  the  other,  but  by  incom- 
patibility, absolute  and  infinite;  that  the  one  is  excellent 
and  high  as  light  and  Heaven,  the  other  hideous,  black  as 
Gehenna  and  the  Pit  of  Hell!  Everlasting  Justice,  yet 
with  Penitence,  with  everlasting  Pity,  —  all  Christianism, 
as  Dante  and  the  Middle  Ages  had  it,  is  emblemed  here. 
Emblemed:  and  yet,  as  I  urged  the  other  day,  with  what 


0  y^---'-^-  ' 

Heroes  and  Hero-ivorship.  185 

entire  triitli  of  purpose ;  how  unconscious  of  any  emblem- 
ing! Hell,  Purgatory,  Paradise:  these  things  were  not 
fashioned  as  emblems;  was  there,  in  our  Modern  European 
Mind,  any  thought  at  all  of  their  being  emblems!  Were 
they  not  indubitable,  awful  facts ;  the  whole  heart  of  man 
taking  them  for  practically  true,  all  Nature  everywhere 
confirming  them?  So  is  it  always  in  these  things.  Men 
do  not  believe  an  Allegory.  The  future  Critic,  whatever 
his  new  thought  may  be,  who  considers  this  of  Dante  to 
have  been  all  got-up  as  an  Allegory,  will  commit  one  sore 
mistake!  —  Paganism  we  recognized  as  a  veracious  expres- 
sion of  the  earnest  awe-struck  feeling  of  man  towards  the 
Universe;  veracious,  true  once,  and  still  not  without  worth 
for  us.  But  mark  here  the  difference  of  Paganism  and 
Christianism;  one  great  difference.  Paganism  emblemed 
chiefly  the  Operations  of  Nature;  the  destinies,  efforts, 
combinations,  vicissitudes,  of  things  and  men  in  this  world; 
Christianism  emblemed  the  Law  of  Human  Duty,  the 
Moral  Law  of  Man.  One  was  for  the  sensuous  nature :  a 
rude  helpless  utterance  of  the  first  Thought  of  men, — the 
chief  recognized  virtue.  Courage,  Superiority  to  Fear.  The 
other  was  not  for  the  sensuous  nature,  but  for  the  moral. 
What  a  progress  is  here,  if  in  that  one  respect  only !  — 


X 


And  so  in  this  Dante,  as  we  said,  had  ten  silent  centu- 
ries, in  a  very  strange  way,  found  a  voice.  The  Divina  -^ 
Commedia  is  of  Dante's  writing;  yet  in  truth  it  belongs  to 
ten  Christian  centuries,  only  the  finishing  of  it  is  Dante's. 
So  always.  The  craftsman  there,  the  smith  with  that  metal 
of  his,  with  these  tools,  with  these  cunning  methods, — 
how  little  of  all  he  does  is  properly  his  work!  All  past 
inventive  men  work  therewith  him; — as  indeed  with  all 
of  us,  in  all  things.  Dante  is  the  spokesman  of  the  Middle 
Ages ;  the  Thought  they  lived  by  stands  here,  in  everlast- 
These  sublime  ideas  of  his,  terrible  and  beauti- 


186  Selections  from    CarJyle, 

ful,  are  the  fruit  of  the  Christian  Meditation  of  all  the 
good  men  who  had  gone  before  him.  Precious  they;  but 
also  is  not  he  precious?  Much,  had  not  he  spoken,  would 
have  been  dumb;  not  dead,  yet  living  voiceless. 

On  the  whole,  is  it  not  an  utterance,  tliis  mj^stic  Song,  at 
once  of  one  of  the  greatest  human  souls,  and  of  the  highest 
thing  that  Europe  had  hitherto  realized  for  itself  ?  Chris- 
tianism,  as  Dante  sings  it,  is  another  than  Paganism  in  the 
rude  Norse  mind;  another  than  'Bastard  Christianism,' 
half-articulately  spoken  in  the  Arab  Desert  seven-hundred 
years  before !  —  The  noblest  idea  made  real  hitherto  among 
men  is  sung,  and  emblemed-forth  abidingly,  by  one  of  the 
noblest  men.  In  the  one  sense  and  in  the  other,  are  we  not 
right  glad  to  possess  it?  As  I  calculate,  it  may  last  yet 
for  long  thousands  of  years.  For  the  thing  that  is  uttered 
from  the  inmost  parts  of  a  man's  soul,  differs  altogether 
from  what  is  uttered  by  the  outer  part.  The  outer  is  of 
the  day,  under  the  empire  of  mode ;  the  outer  passes  away, 
in  swift  endless  changes ;  the  inmost  is  the  same  yesterday, 
to-day,  and  forever.  True  souls,  in  all  generations  of  the 
world,  who  look  on  this  Dante,  will  find  a  brotherhood  in 
him;  the  deep  sincerity  of  his  thoughts,  his  woes  and  hopes, 
will  speak  likewise  to  their  sincerity;  they  will  feel  that 
this  Dante  too  was  a  brother.  Napoleon  in  Saint-Helena 
is  charmed  with  the  genial  veracity  of  old  Homer.  The 
oldest  Hebrew  Prophet,  under  a  vesture  the  most  diverse 
from  ours,  does  yet,  because  he  speaks  from  the  heart  of 
man,  speak  to  all  men's  hearts.  It  is  the  one  sole  secret  of 
continuing  long  memorable.  Dante,  for  depth  of  sincerity, 
is  like  an  antique  Prophet  too;  his  words,  like  theirs,  come 
from  his  very  heart.  One  need  not  wonder  if  it  were  pre- 
dicted that  his  Poem  might  be  the  most  enduring  thing  our 
Europe  has  yet  made;  for  nothing  so  endures  as  a  truly 
spoken  word.  All  cathedrals,  pontificalities,  brass  and 
stone,  and  outer  arrangement  never  so  lasting,  are  brief  in 


Heroes  and  Rero-ivorsJiip.  187 

comparison  to  an  unfathomable  heart-song  like  this:  one 
feels  as  if  it  might  survive,  still  of  importance  to  men, 
when  these  had  all  sunk  into  new  irrecognizable  combina- 
tions, and  had  ceased  individually  to  be.  Europe  has 
made  much;  great  cities,  great  empires,  encyclopedias, 
creeds,  bodies  of  opinion  and  practice:  but  it  has  made 
little  of  the  class  of  Dante's  Thought.  Homer  yet  is,  veri- 
tably present  face  to  face  with  every  open  soul  of  us ;  and 
Greece,  where  is  it?  Desolate  for  thousands  of  years; 
away,  vanished;  a  bewildered  heap  of  stones  and  rubbish, 
the  life  and  existence  of  it  all  gone.  Like  a  dream;  like 
the  dust  of  King  Agamemnon!  Greece  Avas;  Greece, 
except  in  the  words  it  spoke,  is  not. 

The  uses  of  this  Dante?  We  will  not  say  much  about  his 
'uses.'  A  human  soul  who  has  once  got  into  that  primal 
element  of  Song,  and  sung-forth  fitly  somewhat  therefrom, 
has  worked  in  the  depths  of  our  existence ;  feeding  through 
long  times  the  life-roo^s  of  all  excellent  human  things  what- 
soever,—  in  a  way  that  'utilities  '  will  not  succeed  well  in 
calculating !  We  will  not  estimate  the  Sun  by  the  quan- 
tity of  gas-light  it  saves  us ;  Dante  shall  be  invaluable,  or 
of  no  value.  One  remark  I  may  make:  the  contrast  in 
this  respect  between  the  Hero-Poet  and  the  Hero-Prophet. 
In  a  hundred  years,  Mahomet,  as  we  saw,  had  his  Arabians 
at  Grenada  and  at  Delhi;  Dante's  Italians  seem  to  be  yet 
very  much  where  they  were.  Shall  we  say,  then,  Dante's 
effect  on  the  world  was  small  in  comparison?  jSTot  so:  his 
arena  is  far  more  restricted;  but  also  it  is  far  nobler, 
clearer; — perhaps  not  less,  but  more,  important.  Ma- 
homet speaks  to  great  masses  of  men,  in  the  coarse  dialect 
adapted  to  such;  a  dialect  filled  with  inconsistencies,  cru- 
dities, follies:  on  the  great  masses  alone  can  he  act,  and 
there  with  good  and  with  evil  strangely  blended.  Dante 
speaks  to  the  noble,  the  pure  and  great,  in  all  times  and 
places.     Neither  does  he  grow  obsolete,  as  the  other  does. 


188  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

Dante  burns  as  a  pure  star,  fixed  there  in  the  firmament,  at 
which  the  great  and  the  high  of  all  ages  kindle  themselves : 
he  is  the  possession  of  all  the  chosen  of  the  world  for 
uncounted  time.  Dante,  one  calculates,  may  long  survive 
Mahomet.  In  this  way  the  balance  may  be  made  straight 
again. 

But,  at  any  rate,  it  is  not  by  what  is  called  their  effect 
on  the  world, —  by  what  ice  can  judge  of  their  effect  there, 
—  that  a  man  and  his  work  are  measured.  Effect?  Influ- 
ence? Utility?  Let  a  man  do  his  work;  the  fruit  of  it  is 
the  care  of  Another  than  he.  It  will  grow  its  own  fruit; 
and  whether  embodied  in  Caliph  Thrones  and  Arabian  Con- 
quests, so  that  it  'fills  all  Morning  and  Evening  News- 
papers,' and  all  Histories,  which  are  a  kind  of  distilled 
Newspapers;  or  not  embodied  so  at  all;  —  what  matters 
that?  That  is  not  the  real  fruit  of  it!  The  Arabian 
Caliph,  in  so  far  only  as  he  did  something,  was  something. 
If  the  great  Cause  of  Man,  and  Man's  work  in  God's  Earth, 
got  no  furtherance  from  the  Arabian  Caliph,  then  no  matter 
how  many  scimetars  he  drew,  how  many  gold  piasters 
pocketed,  and  what  uproar  and  blaring  he  made  in  this 
world, —  /ie  was  but  a  loud-sounding  inanity  and  futility; 
at  bottom,  he  was  not  at  all.  Let  us  honor  the  great 
empire  of  Silence,  once  more!  The  boundless  treasury 
which  we  do  not  jingle  in  our  pockets,  or  count  up  and 
present  before  men !  It  is  perhaps,  of  all  things,  the  use- 
fulest  for  each  of  us  to  do,  in  these  loud  times.  — 

As  Dante,  the  Italian  man,  was  sent  into  our  world  to 
embody  musically  the  Religion  of  the  Middle  Ages,  the 
Religion  of  our  Modern  Europe,  its  Inner  Life ;  so  Shaks- 
peare,  we  may  say,  embodies  for  us  the  Outer  Life  of  our 
Europe  as  developed  then,  its  chivalries,  courtesies,  humors, 
ambitions,  what  practical  way  of  thinking,  acting,  looking 
at  the  world,  men  then  had.     As  in  Homer  we  may  still 


Heroes  ayid  Hero-worship,  189 

construe  Old  Greece;  so  in  Shakspeare  and  Dante,  after 
thousands  of  years,  what  our  modern  Europe  was  in  Faith 
and  in  Practice  will  still  be  legible.  Dante  has  given  us 
the  Faith  or  soul;  Shakspeare,  in  a  not  less  noble  way,  has 
given  us  the  Practice  or  body.  This  latter  also  we  were 
to  have;  a  man  was  sent  for  it,  the  man  Shakspeare.  Just 
when  that  chivalry  way  of  life  had  reached  its  last  finish, 
and  was  on  the  point  of  breaking  down  into  slow  or  swift 
dissolution,  as  we  now  see  it  everywhere,  this  other  sover- 
eign Poet,  with  his  seeing  eye,  with  his  perennial  singing 
voice,  was  sent  to  take  note  of  it,  to  give  long-enduring 
record  of  it.  Two  fit  men:  Dante,  deep,  fierce  as  the 
central  fire  of  the  world;  Shakspeare,  wide,  placid,  far- 
seeing  as  the  Sun,  the  upper  light  of  the  world.  Italy  pro- 
duced the  one  world-voice ;  we  English  had  the  honor  of 
producing  the  other. 

Curious  enough  how,  as  it  were  by  mere  accident,  this 
man  came  to  us.  I  think  always,  so  great,  quiet,  complete, 
and  self-sufficing  is  this  Shakspeare,  had  the  Warwickshire 
Squire  not  prosecuted  him  for  deer-stealing,  we  had  per- 
haps never  heard  of  him  as  a  Poet !  The  woods  and  skies, 
the  rustic  Life  of  Man  in  Stratford  there,  had  been  enough 
for  this  man !  But  indeed  that  strange  outbudding  of  our 
whole  English  Existence,  which  we  call  the  Elizabethan 
Era,  did  not  it  too  come  as  of  its  own  accord?  The  'Tree 
IgdrasiP  buds  and  withers  by  its  own  laws,  —  too  deep  for 
our  scanning.  Yet  it  does  bud  and  wither,  and  every 
bough  and  leaf  of  it  is  there,  by  fixed  eternal  laws;  not  a 
Sir  Thomas  Lucy  but  comes  at  the  hour  fit  for  him.  Curi- 
ous, I  say,  and  not  sufficiently  considered :  how  everything 
does  cooperate  with  all;  not  a  leaf  rotting  on  the  highway 
but  is  indissoluble  portion  of  solar  and  stellar  systems ;  no 
thought,  word,  or  act  of  man  but  has  sprung  withal  out  of 
all  men,  and  works,  sooner  or  later,  recognizably  or  irrecog- 
nizably,  on  all  men!     It  is  all  a  Tree:  circulation  of  sap 


190  Selectio7is  from   Carlyle. 

and  influences,  mutual  communication  of  every  minutest 
leaf  with  the  lowest  talon  of  a  root,  with  every  other  great- 
est and  minutest  portion  of  the  whole.  The  Tree  Igdrasil, 
that  has  its  roots  down  in  the  Kingdoms  of  Hela  and 
Death,  and  whose  boughs  overspread  the  highest  Heaven ! 

In  some  sense  it  may  be  said  that  this  glorious  Eliza- 
bethan Era  with  its  Shakspeare,  as  the  outcome  and  flower- 
age  of  all  which  had  preceded  it,  is  itself  attributable  to 
the  Catholicism  of  the  Middle  Ages.  The  Christian  Faith, 
which  was  the  theme  of  Dante's  Song,  had  produced  this 
Practical  Life  which  Shakspeare  was  to  sing.  For  Eeligion 
then,  as  it  now  and  always  is,  was  the  soul  of  Practice ;  the 
primary  vital  fact  in  men's  life.  And  remark  here,  as 
rather  curious,  that  Middle-Age  Catholicism  was  abolished, 
so  far  as  Acts  of  Parliament  could  abolish  it,  before  Shaks- 
peare, the  noblest  product  of  it,  made  his  appearance.  He 
did  make  his  appearance  nevertheless.  Nature  at  her  own 
time,  with  Catholicism  or  what  else  might  be  necessary, 
sent  him  forth;  taking  small  thought  of  Acts  of  Parlia- 
ment. King-Henrys,  Queen-Elizabeths  go  their  way;  and 
Nature  too  goes  hers.  Acts  of  Parliament,  on  the  whole, 
are  small,  notwithstanding  the  noise  they  make.  What 
Act  of  Parliament,  debate  at  St.  Stephen's,  on  the  hustings 
or  elsewhere,  was  it  that  brought  this  Shakspeare  into 
being?  No  dining  at  Freemasons'  Tavern,  opening  sub- 
scription-lists, selling  of  shares,  and  infinite  other  jangling 
and  true  or  false  endeavoring!  This  Elizabethan  Era,  and 
all  its  nobleness  and  blessedness,  came  without  proclama- 
tion, preparation  of  ours.  Priceless  Shakspeare  was  the 
free  gift  of  Nature;  given  altogether  silently;  —  received 
altogether  silently,  as  if  it  had  been  a  thing  of  little 
account.  And  yet,  very  literally,  it  is  a  priceless  thing. 
One  should  look  at  that  side  of  matters  too. 

Of  this  Shakspeare  of  ours,  perhaps  the  opinion  one 
sometimes  hears  a  little  idolatrously  expressed  is,  in  fact. 


Heroes  and  Hero-ivorsJiip,  191 

the  right  one ;  I  think  the  best  judgment  not  of  this  country 
only,  but  of  Europe  at  large,  is  slowly  pointing  to  the  con- 
clusion, That  Shakspeare  is  the  chief  of  all  Poets  hitherto; 
the  greatest  Intellect  who,  in  our  recorded  world,  has  left 
record  of  himself  in  the  Avay  of  Literature.  On  the  whole, 
I  know  not  such  a  power  of  vision,  such  a  faculty  of 
thought,  if  we  take  all  the  characters  of  it,  in  any  other 
man.  Such  a  calmness  of  depth;  placid  joyous  strength; 
all  things  imaged  in  that  great  soul  of  his  so  true  and  clear, 
as  in  a  tranquil  unfathomable  sea!  It  has  been  said,  that 
in  the  constructing  of  Shakspeare's  Dramas  there  is,  apart 
from  all  other  'faculties  '  as  they  are  called,  an  understand- 
ing manifested,  equal  to  that  in  Bacon's  Novum  Organum. 
That  is  true;  and  it  is  not  a  truth  that  strikes  every  one. 
It  would  become  more  apparent  if  we  tried,  any  of  us  for 
himself,  how,  out  of  Shakspeare's  dramatic  materials,  we 
could  fashion  such  a  result!  The  built  house  seems  all 
so  fit, —  everyway  as  it  should  be,  as  if  it  came  there  by  its 
own  law  and  the  nature  of  things, —  we  forget  the  rude 
disorderly  quarry  it  was  shaped  from.  The  very  perfection 
of  the  house,  as  if  Nature  herself  had  made  it,  hides  the 
builder's  merit.  Perfect,  more  perfect  than  any  other 
man,  we  may  call  Shakspeare  in  this :  he  discerns,  knows 
as  by  instinct,  what  condition  he  works  under,  what  his 
materials  are,  what  his  own  force  and  its  relation  to  them 
is.  It  is  not  a  transitory  glance  of  insight  that  will  suffice; 
it  is  deliberate  illumination  of  the  whole  matter;  it  is  a 
calmly  seeing  eye ;  a  great  intellect,  in  short.  How  a  man, 
of  some  wide  thing  that  he  has  witnessed,  will  construct  a 
narrative,  —  what  kind  of  picture  and  delineation  he  will 
give  of  it, —  is  the  best  measure  you  could  get  of  what  in- 
tellect is  in  the  man.  Which  circumstancfe  is  vital  and  shall 
stand  prominent ;  which  unessential,  fit  to  be  suppressed; 
where  is  the  true  beginning,  the  true  sequence  and  ending  ? 
To  find  out  this,  you  task  the  whole  force  of  insight  that  is 


192  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

in  the  man.  He  must  understand  the  thing;  according  to 
the  depth  of  his  understanding  will  the  fitness  of  his  answer 
be.  You  will  try  him  so.  Does  like  join  itself  to  like; 
does  the  spirit  of  method  stir  in  that  confusion,  so  that  its 
embroilment  becomes  order?  Can  the  man  say,  ^Fiat  lux, 
Let  there  be  light; '  and  out  of  chaos  make  a  world?  Pre- 
cisely as  there  is  light  in  himself,  will  he  accomplish  this. 
Or,  indeed,  we  may  say  again,  it  is  in  what  I  called 
Portrait-painting,  delineating  of  men  and  things,  especially 
of  men,  that  Shakspea.re  is  great.  All  the  greatness  of  the 
man  comes  out  decisively  here.  It  is  unexampled,  I  think, 
that  calm  creative  perspigacii^y  of  Shakspeare.  The  thing 
he  looks  at  reveals  not  this  oFlbhat  face  of  it,  but  its  inmost 
heart,  and  generic  secret:  it  dissolves  itself  as  in  light 
before  him,  so  that  he  discerns  the  perfect  structure  of  it. 
Creative,  we  said:  poetic  creation,  what  is  this  too  but  see- 
ing the  thing  suiiiciently?  The  word  that  will  describe  the 
thing  follows  of  itself  from  such  clear  intense  sight  of 
the  thing.  And  is  not  Shakspeare's  morality,  his  valor, 
candor,  tolerance,  truthfulness;  his  whole  victorious 
strength  and  greatness,  which  can  triumph  over  such 
obstructions,  visible  there  too?  Great  as  the  world!  No 
tiuisted,  poor  convex-concave  mirror,  reflecting  all  objects 
with  its  own  convexities  and  concavities ;  a  perfectly  level 
mirror;  —  that  is  to  say  withal,  if  we  will  understand  it,  a 
man  justly  related  to  all  things  and  men,  a  good  man.  It 
is  truly  a  lordly  spectacle  how  this  great  soul  takes-in  all 
kinds  of  men  and  objects,  a  Falstaff,  an  Othello,  a  Juliet, 
a  Coriolanus ;  sets  them  all  forth  to  us  in  their  round  com- 
pleteness; loving,  just,  the  equal  brother  of  all.  Novum 
Organum,  and  all  the  intellect  3^ou  will  find  in  Bacon,  is  of 
a  quite  secondary  order;  earthy,  material,  poor  in  com- 
parison with  this.  Among  modern  men,  one  finds,  in 
strictness,  almost  nothing  of  the  same  rank.  Goethe 
alone,    since  the   days  of  Shakspeare,    reminds  me  of  it. 


Heroes  and  Hero-worship.  193 

Of  him  too  you  say  that  he  saw  the  object;  you  may  say 
what  he  himself  says  of  Shakspeare:  'His  characters  are 
like  watches  with  dial-plates  of  trausparent  crystal;  they 
show  you  the  hour  like  others,  and  the  inward  mechanism 
also  is  all  visible.' 

The  seeing  eye !  It  is  this  that  discloses  the  inner  har- 
mony of  things;  what  Nature  meant,  what  musical  idea 
Nature  has  wrapped-up  in  these  often  rough  embodiments. 
Something  she  did  mean.  To  the  seeing  eye  that  some- 
thing were  discernible.  Are  they  base,  miserable  things? 
You  can  laugh  over  them,  you  can  weep  over  them ;  j^ou  can 
in  some  way  or  other  genially  relate  yourself  to  them ;  — 
you  can,  at  lowest,  hold  your  peace  about  them,  turn  away 
your  own  and  others'  face  from  them,  till  the  hour  come  for 
practically  exterminating  and  extinguishing  them!  At 
bottom,  it  is  the  Poet's  first  gift,  as  it  is  all  men's,  that 
he  have  intellect  enough.  He  will  be  a  Poet  if  he  have: 
a  Poet  in  word;  or  failing  that,  perhaps  still  better,  a  Poet 
in  act.  Whether  he  write  at  all;  and  if  so,  whether  in 
prose  or  in  verse,  will  depend  on  accidents:  who  knows 
on  what  extremely  trivial  accidents,  —  perhaps  on  his 
having  had  a  singing-master,  on  his  being  taught  to  sing 
in  his  boyhood!  But  the  faculty  which  enables  him  to 
discern  the  inner  heart  of  things,  and  the  harmony  that 
dwells  there  (for  whatsoever  exists  has  a  harmony  in  the 
heart  of  it,  or  it  would  not  hold  together  and  exist),  is  not 
the  result  of  habits  or  accidents,  but  the  gift  of  Nature  her- 
self;* the  primary  outfit  for  a  Heroic  Man  in  what  sort 
soever.  To  the  Poet,  as  to  every  other,  we  say  first  of  all. 
See.  If  you  cannot  do  that,  it  is  of  no  use  to  keep  stringing 
rhymes  together,  jingling  sensibilities  against  each  other, 
—  and  name  yourself  a  Poef;  there  is  no  hope  for  you. 
If  you  can,  there  is,  in  prose  or  verse,  in  action  or  specu- 
lation, all  manner  of  hope.  The  crabbed  old  Schoolmaster 
used  to  ask,  when  they  brought  him  a  new  pupil,  "But  are 


194  Selectiofis  from   Carlyle. 

ye  sure  he's  not  a  dunce? ^^  Why,  really  one  might  ask  the 
same  thing,  in  regard  to  every  man  proposed  for  whatsoever 
function ;  and  consider  it  as  the  one  inquiry  needful :  '  Are 
ye  sure  he's  not  a  dunce?'  There  is,  in  this  world,  no 
other  entirely  fatal  person. 

For,  in  fact,  I  say  the  degree  of  vision  that  dwells  in  a 
man  is  a  correct  measure  of  the  man.  If  called  to  define 
Shakspeare's  faculty,  I  should  say  superiority  of  Intellect, 
and  think  I  had  included  all  under  that.  What  indeed  are 
faculties?  We  talk  of  faculties  as  if  they  were  distinct, 
things  separable;  as  if  a  man  had  intellect,  imagination, 
fancy,  &c.,  as  he  has  hands,  feet,  and  arms.  That  is  a 
capital  error.  Then  again,  we  hear  of  a  man's  'intellectual 
nature,'  and  of  his  'moral  nature,'  as  if  these  again  were 
divisible,  and  existed  apart.  Necessities  of  language  do 
perhaps  prescribe  such  forms  of  utterance ;  we  must  speak, 
I  am  aware,  in  that  way,  if  we  are  to  speak  at  all.  But 
words  ought  not  to  harden  into  things  for  us.  It  seems 
to  me,  our  apprehension  of  this  matter  is,  for  most  part, 
radically  falsified  thereby.  We  ought  to  know  withal,  and 
to  keep  forever  in  mind,  that  these  divisions  are  at  bottom 
but  names;  that  man's  spiritual  nature,  the  vital  Force 
which  dwells  in  him,  is  essentially  one  and  indivisible; 
that  what  we  call  imagination,  fancy,  understanding,  and 
so  forth,  are  but  different  figures  of  the  same  Power  of 
Insight,  all  indissolubly  connected  with  each  other,  physi- 
ognomically  related;  that  if  we  knew  one  of  them,  Ave 
might  know  all  of  them.  Morality  itself,  what  we  call  the 
moral  quality  of  a  man,  what  is  this  but  another  side  of 
the  one  vital  Force  whereby  he  is  and  works?  All  that  a 
man  does  is  physiognomical  of  him.  You  may  see  how  a 
man  would  fight,  by  the  way  in  which  he  sings;  his  cour- 
age, or  want  of  courage,  is  visible  in  the  word  he  utters,  in 
the  opinion  he  has  formed,  no  less  than  in  the  stroke  he 
strikes.  He  is  one;  and  preaches  the  same  Self  abroad  in 
all  these  ways. 


Heroes  and  Hero-worship.  195 

Without  hands  a  man  might  have  feet,  and  coukl  still 
walk:  but,  consider  it,  —  without  morality,  intellect  were 
impossible  for  him;  a  thoroughly  immoral  man  could  not 
know  anything  at  all !  To  know  a  thing,  what  we  can  call 
knowing,  a  man  must  first  love  the  thing,  sympathize  with 
it :  that  is,  be  virtuously  related  to  it.  If  he  have  not  the 
justice  to  put  down  his  own  selfishness  at  every  turn,  the 
courage  to  stand  by  the  dangerous-true  at  every  turn,  how 
shall  he  know?  His  virtues,  all  of  them,  will  lie  recorded 
in  his  knowledge.  Nature,  with  her  truth,  remains  to  the 
bad,  to  the  selfish  and  the  pusillanimous,  forever  a  sealed 
book :  what  such  can  know  of  Nature  is  mean,  superficial, 
small;  for  the  uses  of  the  day  merely. —  But  does  not  the 
very  Fox  know  something  of  Nature?  Exactly  so:  it 
knows  where  the  geese  lodge !  The  human  Reynard,  very 
frequent  everywhere  in  the  world,  what  more  does  he  know 
but  this  and  the  like  of  this?  Nay,  it  should  be  considered  y  / 
too,  that  if  the  Fox  had  not  a  certain  3^iilj2ine  morality,  he-X 
could  not  even  know  where  the  geese  werC;  or  ^et  at  the 
geese !  If  he  spent  his  time  in  splenetic  atrabiliar  reflec-  ^ 
tions  on  his  own  misery,  his  ill  usage-by  Nature,  Fortune, 
and  other  Foxes,  and  so  forth;  and  had  not  courage,  prompt- 
itude, practicality,  and  other  suitable  vulpine  gifts  and 
graces,  he  would  catch  no  geese.  We  may  say  of  the 
Fox  too,  that  his  morality  and  insight  are  of  the  same 
dimensions;  different  faces  of  the  same  internal  unity  of 
vulpine  life !  —  These  things  are  worth  stating ;  for  the  con- 
trary of  them  acts  with  manifold,  very  baleful  perversion, 
in  this  time :  what  limitations,  modifications  they  require, 
your  own  candor  will  supply. 

If  I  say,  therefore,  that  Shakspeare  is  the  greatest  of 
Intellects,  I  have  said  all  concerning  him.  But  there  is 
more  in  Shakspeare 's  intellect  than  we  have  yet  seen.  It 
is  what  I  call  an  unconscious  intellect;  there  is  more  virtue 
in  it  than  he  himself  is  aware  of.     Novalis  beautifully 


196  Selectio7is  from    Carhjle. 

remarks  of  him,  that  those  Dramas  of  his  are  Products  of 
Nature  too,  deep  as  Nature  herself.  I  find  a  great  truth 
in  this  saying.  Shakspeare's  Art  is  not  Artifice;  the 
noblest  worth  of  it  is  not  there  by  plan  or  precontrivance. 
It  grows-up  from  the  deeps  of  Nature,  through  this  noble 
sincere  soul,  who  is  a  voice  of  Nature.  The  latest  genera- 
tions of  men  will  find  new  meanings  in  Shakspeare,  new 
elucidations  of  their  own  human  being;  'new  harmonies 
with  the  infinite  structure  of  the  Universe;  concurrences 
with  later  ideas,  affinities  with  the  higher  powers  and  senses 
of  man.'  This  well  deserves  meditating.  It  is  Nature's 
highest  reward  to  a  true  simple  great  soul,  that  he  get  thus 
to  be  a  imrt  of  herself.  Such  a  man's  works,  whatsoever  he 
with  utmost  conscious  exertion  and  forethought  shall  accom- 
plish, grow  up  withal  ?mconsciously,  from  the  unknown 
deeps  in  him;  —  as  the  oak-tree  grows  from  the  Earth's 
bosom,  as  the  mountains  and  waters  shape  themselves; 
with  a  symmetry  grounded  on  Nature's  own  laws,  conform- 
able to  all  Truth  Avhatsoever.  How  much  in  Shakspeare 
lies  hid;  his  sorrows,  his  silent  struggles  known  to  him- 
self; much  that  was  not  known  at  all,  not  speakable  at 
all:  like  roots,  like  sap  and  forces  working  underground! 
Speech  is  great;  but  Silence  is  greater. 

Withal  the  joyful  tranquillity  of  this  man  is  notable.  I 
will  not  blame  Dante  for  his  misery:  it  is  as  battle  without 
victory;  but  true  battle, — the  first,  indispensable  thing. 
Yet  I  call  Shakspeare  greater  than  Dante,  in  that  he  fought 
truly,  and  did  conquer.  Doubt  it  not,  he  had  his  own 
sorrows :  those  Sonnets  of  his  will  even  testify  expressly  in 
what  deep  waters  he  had  waded,  and  swum  struggling  for 
his  life;  —  as  what  man  like  him  ever  failed  to  have  to  do? 
It  seems  to  me  a  heedless  notion,  our  common  one,  that  he 
sat  like  a  bird  on  the  bough;  and  sang  forth,  free  and  off- 
hand, never  knowing  the  troubles  of  other  men.  Not  so; 
with  no  man  is  it  so.     How  could  a  man  travel  forward 


Heroes  and  Hero-ivorship.  197 

from  rustic  deer-poaching  to  such  tragedy-writing,  and  not 
fall-in  with  sorrows  by  the  way?  Or,  still  better,  how 
could  a  man  delineate  a  Hamlet,  a  Coriolanus,  a  Macbeth, 
so  many  suffering  heroic  hearts,  if  his  own  heroic  heart  had 
never  suffered? — And  now,  in  contrast  with  all  this, 
observe  his  mirthfulness,  his  genuine  overflowing  love  of 
laughter!  You  would  say,  in  no  point  does  he  exaggerate 
but  only  in  laughter.  Fiery  objurgations,  words  that  pierce 
and  burn,  are  to  be  found  in  Shakspeare ;  yet  he  is  always 
in  measure  here ;  never  what  Johnson  would  remark  as  a 
specially  'good  hater/  But  his  laughter  seems  to  pour 
from  him  in  floods;  he  heaps  all  manner  of  ridiculous  nick- 
names on  the  butt  he  is  bantering,  tumbles  and  tosses  him 
in  all  sorts  of  horse-play;  you  would  say,  with  his  whole 
heart  laughs.  And  then,  if  not  always  the  finest,  it  is 
always  a  genial  laughter.  Not  at  mere  weakness,  at 
misery  or  poverty;  never.  No  man  who  can  laugh,  what 
we  call  laughing,  will  laugh  at  these  things.  It  is  some 
poor  character  only  desiring  to  laugh,  and  have  the  credit 
of  wit,  that  does  so.  Laughter  means  sympathy;  good 
laughter  is  not  'the  crackling  of  thorns  under  the  pot.' 
Even  at  stupidity  and  pretension,  this  Shakspeare  does  not 
laugh  otherwise  than  genially.  Dogberry  and  Verges  tickle 
our  very  hearts;  and  we  dismiss  them  covered  with  explo- 
sions of  laughter:  but  we  like  the  poor  fellows  only  the 
better  for  our  laughing;  and  hope  they  will  get  on  well  there, 
and  continue  Presidents  of  the  City-watch.  Such  laughter, 
like  sunshine  on  the  deep  sea,  is  very  beautiful  to  me. 

We  have  no  room  to  speak  of  Shakspeare's  individual 
works;  though  perhaps  there  is  much  still  waiting  to  be 
said  on  that  head.  Had  we,  for  instance,  all  his  plays 
reviewed  as  Hamlet,  in  Wilhelm  Meister,  is  !  A  thing  which 
might,  one  day,  be  done.  August  Wilhelm  Schlegel  has  a 
remark  on  his  Historical  Plays,  Henry  Fifth  and  the  others, 


198  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

which  is  worth  remembering.  He  calls  them  a  kind  of 
National  Epic.  Marlborough,  you  recollect,  said,  he  knew 
no  English  History  but  what  he  had  learned  from  Shaks- 
peare.  There  are  really,  if  we  look  to  it,  few  as  memorable 
Histories.  The  great  salient  points  are  admirably  seized; 
all  rounds  itself  off,  into  a  kind  of  rhythmic  coherence ;  it 
is,  as  Schlegel  says,  einc;  —  as,  indeed,  all  delineation  by 
a  great  thinker  will  be.  There  are  right  beautiful  things 
in  those  Pieces,  which  indeed  together  form  one  beautiful 
thing.  That  battle  of  Agincourt  strikes  me  as  one  of  the 
most  perfect  things,  in  its  sort,  we  anywhere  have  of  Sliaks- 
peare's.  The  description  of  the  two  hosts :  the  worn-out, 
jaded  English ;  the  dread  hour,  big  with  destiny,  when  the 
battle  shall  begin ;  and  then  that  deathless  valor  :  '  Ye  good 
yeomen,  whose  limbs  were  made  in  England  ! '  There  is  a 
noble  Patriotism  in  it,  —  far  other  than  the  ^indifference' 
you  sometimes  hear  ascribed  to  Shakspeare.  A  true  English 
heart  breathes,  calm  and  strong,  through  the  whole  business  ; 
not  boisterous,  protrusive  ;  all  the  better  for  that.  There  is 
a  sound  in  it  like  the  ring  of  steel.  This  man  too  had  a 
right  stroke  in  him,  had  it  come  to  that ! 

But  I  will  say,  of  Shakspeare's  works  generally,  that  we 
have  no  full  impress  of  him  there ;  even  as  full  as  we  have 
of  many  men.  His  works  are  so  many  windows,  through 
which  we  see  a  glimpse  of  the  world  that  was  in  him.  All 
his  works  seem,  comparatively  speaking,  cursory,  imperfect, 
written  under  cramping  circumstances  ;  giving  only  here 
and  there  a  note  of  the  full  utterance  of  the  man.  Passages 
there  are  that  come  upon  you  like  splendor  out  of  Heaven ; 
bursts  of  radiance,  illuminating  the  very  heart  of  the  thing : 
you  say,  "  That  is  true,  spoken  once  and  forever ;  whereso- 
ever and  whensoever  there  is  an  open  human  soul,  that  will 
be  recognized  as  true ! "  Such  bursts,  however,  make  us 
feel  that  the  surrounding  matter  is  not  radiant ;  that  it  is, 
in  partj  temporary,  conventional.     Alas,  Shakspeare  had  to 


Heroes  and  Hero-worship.  199 

write  for  the  Globe  Playhouse :  his  great  soul  had  to  crush 
itself,  as  it  could,  into  that  and  no  other  mould.  It  was 
with  him,  then,  as  it  is  with  us  all.  No  man  works  save 
under  conditions.  The  sculptor  cannot  set  his  own  free 
Thought  before  us ;  but  his  Thought  as  he  could  translate 
it  into  the  stone  that  was  given,  with  the  tools  that  were 
•given.  Disjecta  membra  are  all  that  we  find  of  any  Poet,  or 
of  any  man. 

Whoever  looks  intelligently  at  this  Shakspeare  may  rec- 
ognize that  he  too  was  a  Prophet,  in  his  way ;  of  an  insight 
analogous  to  the  Prophetic,  though  he  took  it  up  in  another 
strain.  Nature  seemed  to  this  man  also  divine ;  i^^speak- 
able,  deep  as  Tophet,  high  as  Heaven :  ^  We  are  such  stuff 
as  Dreams  are  made  of ! '  That  scroll  in  Westminster  Abbey, 
which  few  read  with  understanding,  is  of  the  depth  of  any 
seer.  But  the  man  sang ;  did  not  preach,  except  musically. 
We  called  Dante  the  melodious  Priest  of  jMiddle-Age  Cathol- 
icism. May  we  not  call  Shakspeare  the  still  more  melodi- 
ous Priest  of  a  true  Catholicism,  the  '  Universal  Church'  of 
the  Future,  and  of  all  times  ?  No  narrow  superstition,  harsh 
asceticism,  intolerance,  fanatical  fierceness  or  perversion  : 
a  Eevelation,  so  far  as  it  goes,  that  such  a  thousandfold 
hidden  beauty  and  divineness  dwells  in  all  Nature ;  which 
let  all  men  worship  as  they  can!  We»may  say  without 
offence,  that  there  rises  a  kind  of  universal  Psalm  out  of 
this  Shakspeare  too ;  not  unfit  to  make  itself  heard  among 
the  still  more  sacred  Psalms.  Not  in  disharmony  with  these, 
if  we  understood  them,  but  in  harmony !  —  I  cannot  call 
this  Shakspeare  a '  Sceptic,'  as  some  do ;  his  indifference  to 
the  creeds  and  theological  quarrels  of  his  time  misleading 
them.  No :  neither  unpatriotic,  though  he  says  little  about 
his  Patriotism ;  nor  sceptic,  though  he  says  little  about  his 
Faith.  Such  'indifference'  was  the  fruit  of  his  greatness 
withal :  his  whole  heart  was  in  his  own  grand  sphere  of 


200  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

worship  (we  may  call  it  such) ;  these  other  controversies, 
vitally  important  to  other  men,  were  not  vital  to  him. 

But  call  it  worship,  call  it  what  you  will,  is  it  not  a  right 
glorious  thing,  and  set  of  things,  this  that  Shakspeare  has 
brought  us  ?  For  myself,  I  feel  that  there  is  actually  a 
kind  of  sacredness  in  the  fact  of  such  a  man  being  sent  into 
this  Earth.  Is  he  not  an  eye  to  us  all ;  a  blessed  heaven- 
sent Bringer  of  Light  ?  —  And,  at  bottom,  was  it  not  perhaps 
far  better  that  this  Shakspeare,  everyway  an  unconscious 
man,  was  conscious  of  no  Heavenly  message  ?  He  did  not 
feel,  like  Mahomet,  because  he  saw  into  those  internal  Splen- 
dors, that  he  specially  was  the  '  Prophet  of  God : '  and  was 
he  not  greater  than  Mahomet  in  that  ?  Greater ;  and  also, 
if  we  compute  strictly,  as  we  did  in  Dante's  case,  more  suc- 
cessful. It  was  intrinsically  an  error,  that  notion  of  Ma- 
homet's, of  his  supreme  Prophethood  ;  and  has  come  down 
to  us  inextricably  involved  in  error  to  this  day ;  dragging 
along  with  it  such  a  coil  of  fables,  impurities,  intolerances, 
as  makes  it  a  questionable  step  for  me  here  and  now  to  say, 
as  I  have  done,  that  Mahomet  was  a  true  Speaker  at  all, 
and  not  rather  an  ambitious  charlatan,  perversity,  and  simu- 
lacrum ;  no  Speaker,  but  a  Babbler !  Even  in  Arabia,  as  I 
compute,  Mahomet  will  have  exhausted  himself  and  become 
obsolete,  while  this  Shakspeare,  this  Dante,  may  still  be 
young ;  —  while  this  Shakspeare  may  still  pretend  to  be  a 
Priest  of  Mankind,  of  Arabia  as  of  other  places,  for  unlimited 
periods  to  come ! 

A  :'\  Compared  with  any  speaker  or  singer  one  knows,  even 
jj|7iwrth  ^schylus  or  Homer,  why  should  he  not,  for  veracity 

K  |[/and  universality,  last  like  them?  He  is  sincere  as  they; 
•  reaches  deep  down,  like  them,  to  the  universal  and  perennial. 
But  as  for  Mahomet,  I  think  it  had  been  better  for  him  not 
to  be  so  conscious!  Alas,  poor  Mahomet;  all  that  he  was 
conscious  of  was  a  mere  error ;  a  futility  and  triviality,  — 
as  indeed  such  ever  is.     The  truly  great  in  him  too  was  the 


Heroes  and  Hero-worship.  201 

unconscious  :  that  lie  was  a  wild  Arab  lion  of.  the  desert, 
and  did  speak-out  with  that  great  thunder-voice  of  his,  not 
by  words  which  he  thought  to  be  great,  but  by  actions,  by 
feelings,  by  a  history  which  ivere  great !  His  Koran  has 
become  a  stupid  piece  of  prolix  absurdity;  we  do  not  be- 
lieve, like  him,  that  God  wrote  that !  The  Great  Man  here 
too,  as  always,  is  a  Force  of  jS'ature :  whatsoever  is  truly 
great  in  him  springs-up  from  the  iViarticulate  deeps. 

Well :  this  is  our  poor  Warwickshire  Peasant,  who  rose 
to  be  Manager  of  a  Playhouse,  so  that  he  could  live  without 
begging;  whom  the  Earl  of  Southampton  cast  some  kind 
glances  on ;  whom  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  many  thanks  to  him, 
was  for  sending  to  the  Treadmill !  We  did  not  account  him 
a  god,  like  Odin,  while  he  dwelt  with  us ;  —  on  which  point 
there  were  much  to  be  said.  But  I  will  say  rather,  or  repeat : 
In  spite  of  the  sad  state  Hero-worship  now  lies  in,  consider 
what  this  Shakspeare  has  actually  become  among  us.  'Which 
Englishman  we  ever  made,  in  this  land  of  ours,  which  mill- 
ion of  Englishmen  would  we  not  give-up  rather  than  the 
Stratford  Peasant  ?  There  is  no  regiment  of  highest  Digni- 
taries that  we  would  sell  him  for.  He  is  the  grandest  thing 
we  have  yet  done.  For  our  honor  among  foreign  nations, 
as  an  ornament  to  our  English  Household,  what  item  is  there 
that  we  would  not  surrender  rather  than  him  ?  Consider 
now,  if  they  asked  us,  '  Will  you  give-up  your  Indian  Empire 
or  your  Shakspeare,  you  English ;  never  have  had  any  Indian 
Empire,  or  never  have  had  any  Shakspeare  ? '  Really  it 
were  a  grave  question.  Official  persons  would  answer  doubt- 
less in  official  language ;  but  we,  for  our  part  too,  should 
not  we  be  forced  to  answer  :  '  Indian  Empire  or  no  Indian 
Empire,  we  cannot  do  mthout  Shakspeare  !  Indian  Empire 
will  go,  at  any  rate,  some  day;  but  this  Shakspeare  does 
not  go,  he  lasts  forever  with  us ;  we  cannot  give-up  our 
Shakspeare ! ' 


202  Selections  fro7n   Carlyle. 

Nay,  apart  from  spiritualities  ;  and  considering  him  merely 
as  a  real,  marketable,  tangibly-useful  possession.  England, 
before  long,  this  Island  of  ours,  will  hold  but  a  small  frac- 
tion of  the  English  :  in  America,  in  New  Holland,  east  and 
west  to  the  very  Antipodes,  there  will  be  a  Saxondom  cover- 
ing great  spaces  of  the  Globe.  And  now,  what  is  it  that  can 
keep  all  these  together  into  virtually  one  Nation,  so  that 
they  do  not  fall-out  and  fight,  but  live  at  peace,  in  brother- 
like intercourse,  helping  one  another?  This  is  justly  re- 
garded as  the  greatest  practical  problem,  the  thing  all  man- 
ner of  sovereignties  and  governments  are  here  to  accomplish  : 
what  is  it  that  will  accomplish  this  ?  Acts  of  Parliament, 
administrative  prime-ministers  cannot.  America  is  parted 
from  us,  so  far  as  Parliament  could  part  it.  Call  it  not  fan- 
tastic, for  there  is  much  reality  in  it :  Here,  I  say,  is  an 
English  King,  whom  no  time  or  chance.  Parliament  or  com- 
bination of  Parliaments,  can  dethrone  !  This  King  Shak- 
speare,  does  not  he  shine,  in  crowned  sovereignt}^,  over  us 
all,  as  the  noblest,  gentlest,  yet  strongest  of  rallying-signs ; 
Widestructible ;  really  more  valuable  in  that  point  of  view 
than  any  other  means  or  appliance  whatsoever  ?  We  can 
fancy  him  as  radiant  aloft  over  all  the  Nations  of  English- 
men, a  thousand  years  hence.  From  Paramatta,  from  New 
York,  wheresoever,  under  what  sort  of  Parish-Constable  so- 
ever, English  men  and  women  are,  they  will  say  to  one  an- 
other :  ''  Yes,  this  Shakspeare  is  ours ;  we  produced  him, 
we  speak  and  think  by  him ;  we  are  of  one  blood  and  kind 
with  him."  The  most  common-sense  politician,  too,  if  he 
pleases,  may  think  of  that. 

Yes,  truly,  it  is  a  great  thing  for  a  Nation  that  it  get  an 
articulate  voice  ;  that  it  produce  a  man  who  will  speak-forth 
melodiously  what  the  heart  of  it  means  !  Italy,  for  example, 
poor  Italy  lies  dismembered,  scattered  asunder,  not  appear- 
ing in  any  protocol  or  treaty  as  a  unity  at  all ;  yet  the  noble 
Italy  is  actually  one :  Italy  produced  its  Dante ;  Italy  can 


Heroes  and  Hero-worship.  203 

speak !  The  Czar  of  all  the  Eiissias,  he  is  strong,  with  so 
many  bayonets,  Cossacks,  and  cannons ;  and  does  a  great  feat 
in  keeping  such  a  tract  of  Earth  politically  together ;  but 
he  cannot  yet  speak.  Something  great  in  him,  but  it  is  a 
dumb  greatness.  He  has  had  no  voice  of  genius,  to  be  heard 
of  all  men  and  times.  He  must  learn  to  speak.  He  is  a 
great  dumb  monster  hitherto.  His  cannons  and  Cossacks  will 
all  have  rusted  into  nonentity,  while  that  Dante's  voice  is 
still  audible.  The  Nation  that  has  a  Dante  is  bound 
together  as  no  dumb  Eussia  can  be.  —  We  must  here  end 
what  we  had  to  say  of  the  Hero-Poet. 


THE   HERO  AS   MAN   OF    LETTERS. 

JOHNSON;    ROUSSEAU;    BURNS. 

Hero-gods,  Prophets,  Poets,  Priests,  are  forms  of  Hero- 
ism that  belong  to  the  old  ages,  make  their  appearance  in 
the  remotest  times ;  some  of  them  have  ceased  to  be  possible 
long  since,  and  cannot  any  more  show  themselves  in  this 
world.  The  Hero  as  Man  of  Letters,  again,  of  which  class 
we  are  to  speak  to-day,  is  altogether  a  product  of  these  new 
ages ;  and  so  long  as  the  wondrous  art  of  Writing,  or  of 
Ready-writing  which  we  call  Printing,  subsists,  he  may  be 
expected  to  continue,  as  one  of  the  main  forms  of  Heroism 
for  all  future  ages.  He  is,  in  various  respects,  a  very  singu- 
lar phenomenon. 

He  is  new,  I  say ;  he  has  hardly  lasted  above  a  century  in 
the  world  yet.  Never,  till  about  a  hundred  years  ago,  was 
there  seen  any  figure  of  a  Great  Soul  living  apart  in  that 
anomalous  manner ;  endeavoring  to  speak-forth  the  inspira- 
tion that  was  in  him  hj  Printed  Books,  and  find  place  and 
subsistence  by  what  the  world  would  please  to  give  him  for 
doing  that.  Much  had  been  sold  and  bought,  and  left  to  make 
its  own  bargain  in  the  marketplace ;  but  the  inspired  wis- 
dom of  a  Heroic  Soul  never  till  then,  in  that  naked  manner.' 
He,  with  his  copy-rights  and  copy-wrongs,  in  his  squalid  gar- 
ret, in  his  rusty  coat ;  ruling  (for  this  is  what  he  does),  from 
his  grave,  after  death,  whole  nations  and  generations  who 
would,  or  would  not,  give  him  bread  while  living,  —  is  a 
rather  curious  spectacle  !  Few  shapes  of  Heroism  can  be 
more  unexpected. 

204 


Heroes  and  Hero-worship.  205 

Alas,  the  Hero  from  of  old  has  had  to  cramp  himself  into 
strange  shapes :  the  world  knows  not  well  at  any  time  what 
to  do  with  him,  so  foreign  is  his  aspect  in  the  world !  It 
seemed  absnrd  to  ns,  that  men,  in  their  rude  admiration, 
should  take  some  wise  great  Odin  for  a  god,  and  worship 
him  as  such ;  some  wise  great  Mahomet  for  one  god-inspired, ' 
and  religiously  follow  his  Law  for  twelve  centuries :  but 
that  a  wise  great  Johnson,  a  Burns,  a  Eousseau,  should 
be  taken  for  some  idle  nondescript,  extant  in  the  world 
to  amuse  idleness,  and  have  a  few  coins  and  applauses 
thrown  him,  that  he  might  live  thereby ;  this  perhaps,  as 
before  hinted,  will  one  day  seem  a  still  absurder  phasis 
of  things !  —  Meanwhile,  since  it  is  the  spiritual  always 
that  determines  the  material,  this  same  Man-of-Letters  Hero 
must  be  regarded  as  our  most  important  modern  person. 
He,  such  as  he  may  be,  is  the  soul  of  all.  What  he  teaches, 
the  whole  world  will  do  and  make.  The  world's  manner  of 
dealing  with  him  is  the  most  significant  feature  of  the 
world's  general  position.  Looking  well  at  his  life,  we  may 
get  a  glance,  as  deep  as  is  readily  possible  for  us,  into  the 
life  of  those  singular  centuries  which  have  produced  him, 
in  which  we  ourselves  live  and  work. 

There  are  genuine  Men  of  Letters,  and  not  genuine ;  as 
in  every  kind  there  is  a  genuine  and  a  spurious.  If  Hero 
be  taken  to  mean  genuine,  then  I  say  the  Hero  as  Man  of 
Letters  will  be  found  discharging  a  function  for  us  which  is 
ever  honorable,  ever  the  highest ;  and  was  once  well  known 
to  be  the  highest.  He  is  uttering-forth,  in  such  a  way  as 
he  has,  the  inspired  soul  of  him;  all  that  a  man,  in  any 
case,  can  do.  I  say  inspired;  for  what  we  call  'origi- 
nality,' '  sincerity,'  '  genius,'  the  heroic  quality  we  have  no 
good  name  for,  signifies  that.  The  Hero  is  he  who  lives  in 
the  inward  sphere  of  things,  in  the  True,  Divine,  and  Eter- 
nal, Avhich  exists  always,  unseen  to  most,  under  the  Tempo- 
rary, Trivial :  his  being  is  in  that ;  he  declares  that  abroad, 


206  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

by  act  or  speech  as  it  may  be,  in  declaring  himself  abroad. 
His  life,  as  we  said  before,  is  a  piece  of  the  everlasting  heart 
of  Nature  herself :  all  men's  life  is,  —  but  the  weak  many 
know  not  the  fact,  and  are  untrue  to  it,  in  most  times ;  the 
strong  few  are  strong,  heroic,  perennial,  because  it  cannot  be 
hidden  from  them.  The  Man  of  Letters,  like  every  Hero, 
is  there  to  proclaim  this  in  such  sort  as  he  can.  Intrinsi- 
cally it  is  the  same  function  which  the  old  generations  named 
a  man  Prophet,  Priest,  Divinity,  for  doing ;  which  all  man- 
ner of  Heroes,  by  speech  or  by  act,  are  sent  into  the  world 
to  do. 

Fichte,  the  G-erman  Philosopher,  delivered,  some  forty 
years  ago  at  Erlangen,  a  highly  remarkable  Course  of 
Lectures  on  this  subject :  '  Ueher  das  Wesen  des  Gelekrten, 
On  the  Nature  of  the  Literary  Man.'  Fichte,  in  conformity 
with  the  Transcendental  Philosophy,  of  which  he  was  a 
distinguished  teacher,  declares  first :  That  all  things  which 
we  see  or  work  with  in  this  Earth,  especially  we  ourselves 
and  all  persons,  are  as  a  kind  of  vesture  or  sensuous  Appear- 
ance :  that  under  all  there  lies,  as  the  essence  of  them,  what 
he  calls  the  'Divine  Idea  of  the  World ; '  this  is  the  Eeality 
which  '  lies  at  the  bottom  of  all  Appearance.'  To  the  mass 
of  men  no  such  Divine  Idea  is  recognizable  in  the  world  ; 
they  live  merely,  says  Fichte,  among  the  superficialities, 
practicalities,  and  shows  of  the  world,  not  dreaming  that 
there  is  anything  divine  under  them.  But  the  Man  of 
Letters  is  sent  hither  specially  that  he  may  discern  for 
himself,  and  make  manifest  to  us,  this  same  Divine  Idea : 
in  every  new  generation  it  will  manifest  itself  in  a  new 
dialect;  and  he  is  there  for  the  purpose  of  doing  that. 
Such  is  Fichte's  phraseology ;  with  which  we  need  not 
quarrel.  It  is  his  way  of  naming  what  I  here,  by  other 
words,  am  striving  imperfectly  to  name ;  what  there  is  at 
present  no  name  for :  The  unspeakable  Divine  Significance, 
full  of  splendor,  of  wonder  and  terror,  that  lies  in  the  being 


Heroes  and  Hero-tuorsJiip.  207 

of  every  man,  of  every  thing,  —  the  Presence  of  the  God 
who  made  every  man  and  thing.  Mahomet  taught  this  in 
his  dialect ;  Odin  in  his  :  it  is  the  thing  which  all  thinking 
hearts,  in  one  dialect  or  another,  are  here  to  teach. 

Fichte  calls  the  Man  of  Letters,  therefore,  a  Prophet,  or 
as  he  prefers  to  phrase  it,  a  Priest,  continnally  unfolding 
the  Godlike  to  men :  Men  of  Letters  are  a  perpetual  Priest- 
hood, from  age  to  age,  teaching  all  men  that  a  God  is  still 
present  in  their  life ;  that  all  '  Appearance,'  whatsoever  we 
see  in  the  world,  is  but  as  a  vesture  for  the  '  Divine  Idea  of 
the  World,'  for  Hhat  which  lies  at  the  bottom  of  Appear- 
ance.' In  the  true  Literary  Man  there  is  thus  ever,  acknowl- 
edged or  not  by  the  world,  a  sacredness :  he  is  the  light  of 
the  world;  the  world's  Priest;  —  guiding  it,  like  a  sacred 
Pillar  of  Pire,  in  its  dark  pilgrimage  through  the  waste  of 
Time.  Pichte  discriminates  with  sharp  zeal  the  true  Liter- 
ary Man,  what  we  here  call  the  Hero  as  Man  of  Letters, 
from  multitudes  of  false  unheroic.  Whoever  lives  not 
wholly  in  this  Divine  Idea,  or,  living  partially  in  it,  strug- 
gles not,  as  for  the  one  good,  to  live  wholly  in  it,  —  he  is, 
let  him  live  where  else  he  like,  in  what  pomps  and  pros- 
perities he  like,  no  Literary  Man;  he  is,  says  Pichte,  a 
'  Bungler,  Stumper  J  Or  at  best,  if  he  belong  to  the  prosaic 
provinces,  he  may  be  a  '  Hodman ; '  Pichte  even  calls  him 
elsewhere  a  '  Nonentity,'  and  has  in  short  no  mercy  for  him, 
no  wish  that  he  should  continue  happy  among  us  !  This  is 
Pichte's  notion  of  the  Man  of  Letters.  It  means,  in  its  own 
form,  precisely  what  we  here  mean. 

In  this  point  of  view,  I  consider  that  for  the  last  hundred 
years,  by  far  the  notablest  of  all  Literary  Men  is  Pichte's 
countryman,  Goethe.  To  that  man  too,  in  a  strange  way, 
there  was  given  what  we  may  call  a  life  in  the  Divine  Idea 
of  the  World ;  vision  of  the  inward  divine  mystery  :  and 
strangely,  out  of  his  Books,  the  world  rises  imaged  once  more 
as  godlike,  the  workmanship  and  temple  of  a  God.     Illumi- 


208  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

nated  all,  not  in  fierce  impure  fire-splendor  as  of  Mahomet, 
but  in  mild  celestial  radiance  ;  —  really  a  Prophecy  in  these 
most  unprophetic  times;  to  my  mind,  by  far  the  greatest, 
though  one  of  the  quietest,  among  all  the  great  things  that 
have  come  to  pass  in  them.  Our  chosen  specimen  of  the 
Hero  as  Literary  Man  would  be  this  Goethe.  And  it  were  a 
very  pleasant  plan  for  me  here  to  discourse  of  his  heroism : 
for  I  consider  him  to  be  a  true  Hero ;  heroic  in  what  he  said 
and  did,  and  perhaps  still  more  in  what  he  did  not  say  and 
did  not  do ;  to  me  a  noble  spectacle :  a  great  heroic  ancient 
man,  speaking  and  keeping  silence  as  an  ancient  Hero,  in  the 
guise  of  a  most  modern,  high-bred,  high-cultivated  Man  of 
Letters !  We  have  had  no  such  spectacle  ;  no  man  capable 
of  affording  such,  for  the  last  hundred-and-fifty  years. 

But  at  present,  such  is  the  general  state  of  knowledge 
about  Goethe,  it  were  worse  than  useless  to  attempt  speak- 
ing of  him  in  this  case.  Speak  as  I  might,  Goethe,  to  the 
great  majority  of  you,  would  remain  problematic,  vague; 
no  impression  but  a  false  one  could  be  realized.  Him  we 
must  leave  to  future  times.  Johnson,  Burns,  Rousseau, 
three  great  figures  from  a  prior  time,  from  a  far  inferior 
state  of  circumstances,  will  suit  us  better  here.  Three  men 
of  the  Eighteenth  Century ;  the  conditions  of  their  life  far 
more  resemble  what  those  of  ours  still  are  in  England,  than 
what  Goethe's  in  Germany  were.  Alas,  these  men  did  not 
conquer  like  him;  they  fought  bravely,  and  fell.  They 
were  not  heroic  bringers  of  the  light,  but  heroic  seekers  of 
it.  They  lived  under  galling  conditions;  struggling  as 
under  mountains  of  impediment,  and  could  not  unfold  them- 
selves into  clearness,  or  victorious  interpretation  of  that 
^Divine  Idea.'  It  is  rather  the  Tombs  of  three  Literary 
Heroes  that  I  have  to  show  you.  There  are  the  monu- 
mental heaps,  under  which  three  spiritual  giants  lie  buried. 
Very  mournful,  but  also  great  and  full  of  interest  for  us. 
We  will  linger  by  them  for  a  while. 


Heroes  and  Hero-ivorsliip.  209 

Complaint  is  often  made,  in  these  times,  of  wliat  we 
call  the  disorganized  condition  of  society:  how  ill  many 
arranged  forces  of  society  fulfill  their  work;  how  many 
powerful  forces  are  seen  working  in  a  wasteful,  chaotic, 
altogether  unarranged  manner.  It  is  too  just  a  complaint, 
as  we  all  know.  But  perhaps  if  we  look  at  this  of  Books 
and  the  Writers  of  Books,  we  shall  find  here,  as  it  were, 
the  summary  of  all  other  disorganization;  —  a  sort  of  heart, 
from  which,  and  to  which,  all  other  confusion  circulates  in 
the  world !  Considering  what  Book- writers  do  in  the  world, 
and  what  the  world  does  with  Book-writers,  I  should  say, 
It  is  the  «aost  anomalous  thing  the  world  at  present  has  to 
show. —  We  should  get  into  a  sea  far  beyond  sounding, 
did  we  attempt  to  give  account  of  this :  but  we  must  glance 
at  it  for  the  sake  of  our  subject.  The  worst  element  in  the 
life  of  these  three  Literary  Heroes  was,  that  they  found 
their  business  and  position  such  a  chaos.  On  the  beaten 
road  there  is  tolerable  traveling;  but  it  is  sore  work,  and 
many  have  to  perish,  fashioning  a  path  through  the  impas- 
sable ! 

Our  pious  Fathers,  feeling  well  what  importance  lay  in 
the  speaking  of  man  to  men,  founded  churches,  made 
endowments,  regulations;  everywhere  in  the  civilized 
world  there  is  a  Pulpit,  environed  with  all  manner  of  com- 
plex dignified  appurtenances  and  furtherances,  that  there- 
from a  man  with  the  tongue  may,  to  best  advantage,  address 
his  fellow-men.  They  felt  that  this  was  the  most  impor- 
tant thing;  that  without  this  there  was  no  good  thing.  It 
is  a  right  pious  work,  that  of  theirs;  beautiful  to  behold! 
But  now  with  the  art  of  Writing,  with  the  art  of  Printing, 
a  total  change  has  come  over  that  business.  The  Writer  of 
a  Book,  is  not  he  a  Preacher  preaching  not  to  this  parish  or 
that,  on  this  day  or  that,  but  to  all  men  in  all  times  and 
places?  Surely  it  is  of  the  last  importance  tliat  he  do  his 
work  right,  whoever  do  it  wrong ;  —  that  the  eye  report  not 


210  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

falsely,  for  then  all  the  other  members  are  astray!  Well; 
how  he  may  do  his  work,  whether  he  do  it  right  or  wrong, 
or  do  it  at  all,  is  a  point  which  no  man  in  the  world  has 
taken  the  pains  to  think  of.  To  a  certain  shopkeeper,  try- 
ing to  get  some  money  for  his  books,  if  lucky,  he  is  of  some 
importance;  to  no  other  man  of  any.  Whence  he  came, 
whither  he  is  bound,  by  what  ways  he  arrived,  by  what  he 
might  be  furthered  on  his  course,  no  one  asks.  He  is  an 
accident  in  society.  He  wanders  like  a  wild  Ishmaelite,  in 
a  world  of  which  he  is  as  the  spiritual  light,  either  the 
guidance  or  the  misguidance ! 

Certainly  the  Art  of  Writing  is  the  most  miraculous  of 
all  things  man  has  devised.  Odin's  Runes  were  the  first 
form  of  the  work  of  a  Hero ;  Books,  written  words,  are  still 
miraculous  Ru7ies,  the  latest  form !  In  Books  lies  the  soul 
of  the  whole  Past  Time ;  the  articulate  audible  voice  of  the 
Past,  when  the  body  and  material  substance  of  it  has  alto- 
gether vanished  like  a  dream.  Mighty  fleets  and  armies, 
harbors  and  arsenals,  vast  cities,  high-domed,  many- 
engined, —  they  are  precious,  great:  but  what  do  they 
become?  Agamemnon,  the  many  Agamemnons,  Pericleses, 
and  their  Greece ;  all  is  gone  now  to  some  ruined  fragments, 
dumb  mournful  wrecks  and  blocks:  but  the  Books  of 
Greece !  There  Greece,  to  every  thinker,  still  very  literally 
lives;  can  be  called-up  again  into  life.  No  magic  Rune  is 
stranger  than  a  Book.  All  that  Mankind  has  done, 
thought,  gained,  or  been:  it  is  lying  as  in  magic  preser- 
vation in  the  pages  of  Books.  They  are  the  chosen  pos- 
session of  men. 

Do  not  Books  still  accomplish  miracles,  as  Runes  were 
fabled  to  do?  They  persuade  men.  Not  the  wretchedest 
circulating-library  novel,  which  foolish  girls  thumb  and 
con  in  remote  villages,  but  will  help  to  regulate  the  actual 
practical  weddings  and  households  of  those  foolish  girls. 
So  'Celia'  felt,  so  'Clifford'  acted:  the  foolish  Theorem  of 


Heroes  and  Her o-ivor ship.  211 

Life,  stamped  into  those  young  brains,  comes  out  as  a  solid 
Practice  one  day.  Consider  whether  any  Rune  in  the  wild- 
est imagination  of  Mythologist  ever  did  such  wonders  as, 
on  the  actual  firm  Earth,  some  Books  have  done!  What 
built  St.  Paul's  Cathedral?  Look  at  the  heart  of  the 
matter,  it  was  that  divine  Hebrew  Book,— the  word  partly 
of  the  man  Moses,  an  outlaw  tending  his  Midianitish  herds, 
four-thousand  years  ago,  in  the  wildernesses  of  Sinai !  It  is 
the  strangest  of  things,  yet  nothing  is  truer.  With  the  art 
of  AVriting,  of  which  Printing  is  a  simple,  an  inevitable 
and  comparatively  insignificant  corollary,  the  true  reign  of 
miracles  for  mankind  commenced.  It  related,  with  a  won- 
drous new  contiguity  and  perpetual  closeness,  the  Past  and 
Distant  with  the  Present  in  time  and  place ;  all  times  and 
all  places  with  this  our  actual  Here  and  Now.  All  things 
were  altered  for  men;  all  modes  of  important  work  of  men: 
teaching,  preaching,  governing,  and  all  else. 

To  look  at  Teaching,  for  instance.  Universities  are  a 
notable,  respectable  product  of  the  modern  ages.  Their 
existence  too  is  modified,  to  the  very  basis  of  it,  by  the 
existence  of  Books.  Universities  arose  while  there  were 
yet  no  Books  procurable ;  while  a  man,  for  a  single  Book, 
had  to  give  an  estate  of  land.  That,  in  those  circum- 
stances, when  a  man  had  some  knowledge  to  communicate, 
he  should  do  it  by  gathering  the  learners  round  him,  face 
to  face,  was  a  necessity  for  him.  If  you  wanted  to  know 
what  Abelard  knew,  you  must  go  and  listen  to  Abelard. 
Thousands,  as  many  as  thirty-thousand,  w^ent  to  hear  Abe- 
lard and  that  metaphysical  theology  of  his.  And  now  for 
any  other  teacher  who  had  also  something  of  his  own  to 
teach,  there  was  a  great  convenience  opened :  so  many  thou- 
sands eager  to  learn  were  already  assembled  yonder ;  of  all 
places  the  best  place  for  him  was  that.  For  any  third 
teacher  it  was  better  still;  and  grew  ever  the  better,  the 
more  teachers  there  came.     It  only  needed  now  that  the 


212  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

King  took  notice  of  this  new  phenomenon;  combined  or 
agglomerated  tlie  various  schools  into  one  school;  gave  it 
edifices,  privileges,  encouragements,  and  named  it  Univer- 
sitas,  or  School  of  all  Sciences :  the  University  of  Paris,  in 
its  essential  characters,  was  there.  The  model  of  all  sub- 
sequent Universities ;  which  down  even  to  these  days,  for 
six  centuries  now,  have  gone  on  to  found  themselves. 
Such,  I  conceive,  was  the  origin  of  Universities. 

It  is  clear,  however,  that  with  this  simple  circumstance, 
facility  of  getting  Books,  the  whole  conditions  of  the  busi- 
ness from  top  to  bottom  were  changed.  Once  invent  Print- 
ing, you  metamorphosed  all  Universities,  or  superseded 
them !  The  Teacher  needed  not  now  to  gather  men  person- 
ally round  him,  that  he  might  S2)ea7c  to  them  what  he  knew : 
print  it  in  a  Book,  and  all  learners  far  and  wide,  for  a 
trifle,  had  it  each  at  his  own  fireside,  much  more  effectually 
to  learn  it !  —  Doubtless  there  is  still  peculiar  virtue  in 
Speech ;  even  writers  of  Books  may  still,  in  some  circum- 
stances, find  it  convenient  to  speak  also,  —  witness  our 
present  meeting  here !  There  is,  one  would  say,  and  must 
ever  remain  while  man  has  a  tongue,  a  distinct  province 
for  Speech  as  well  as  for  Writing  and  Printing.  In  regard 
to  all  things  this  must  remain;  to  Universities  among 
others.  But  the  limits  of  the  two  have  nowhere  yet  been 
pointed  out,  ascertained;  much  less  put  in  practice:  the 
University  which  would  completely  take-in  that  great  new 
fact,  of  the  existence  of  Printed  Books,  and  stand  on  a 
clear  footing  for  the  Nineteenth  Century  as  the  Paris  one 
did  for  the  Thirteenth,  has  not  yet  come  into  existence. 
If  we  think  of  it,  all  that  a  University,  or  final  highest 
School  can  do  for  us,  is  still  but  what  the  first  School  began 
doing,  —  teach  us  to  read.  We  learn  to  read,  in  various 
languages,  in  various  sciences;  we  learn  the  alphabet  and 
letters  of  all  manner  of  Books.  But  the  place  where  we 
are   to   get  knowledge,    even  theoretic  knowledge,    is  the 


Heroes  and  ffero-worship.  213 

Books  themselves !  It  depends  on  wliat  we  read,  after  all 
manner  of  Professors  have  done  their  best  for  us.  The 
true  University  of  these  days  is  a  Collection  of  Books. 

But   to  the   Church   itself,    as   I  hinted  already,    all  is 
changed,  in  its  preaching,  in  its  working,  by  the  introduc- 
tion  of   Books.      The   Church   is  the  working,  recognized 
Union  of  our  Priests  or  Prophets,  of  those  who  by  wise 
teaching   guide   the   souls  of   men.     While  there  was  no 
Writing,  even  while  there  was  no  Easy-writing  or  Printing, 
the  preaching  of  the  voice  was  the  natural  sole  method  of 
performing  this.     But  now  with  Books !  —  He  that  can  write 
a  true  Book,  to  persuade  England,  is  not  he  the  Bishop  and 
Archbishop,  the  Primate  of  England  and  of  All  England? 
I  many  a  time  say,  the  writers  of  Newspapers,  Pamphlets, 
Poems,  Books,  these  are  the  real  working  effective  Church 
of  a  modern  country.    Kay,  not  only  our  preaching,  but  even 
our  worship,  is  not  it  too  accomplished  by  means  of  Printed 
Books?     The   noble    sentiment   which   a   gifted   soul   has 
clothed  for  us  in  melodious  words,  which  brings  melody 
into  our  hearts, —  is  not  this  essentially,  if  we  will  under- 
stand it,  of  the  nature  of  worship?     There  are  many  in  all 
countries  who,  in  this  confused  time,  have  no  other  method 
.of  worship.     He  who  in  any  way  shows  us  better  than  we 
knew  before  that  a  lily  of  the  fields  is  beautiful,  does  he 
not  show  it  us  as  an  effluence  of  the  Eountain  of  all  Beauty ; 
as  the  handivriting,  made  visible  there,  of  the  great  Maker 
of  the  Universe?     He  has  sung  for  us,  made  us  sing  with 
him,   a  little  verse  of   a   sacred   Psalm.     Essentially  so. 
How  much  more  he  who  sings,  who  says,   or  in  any  way 
brings  home  to  our  heart,  the  noble  doings,  feelings,  darings, 
and  endurances  of  a  brother  man!     He  has  verily  touched 
our  hearts  as  with  a  live  coal  fro7n  the  altar.     Perhaps 
there  is  no  worship  more  authentic. 

Literature,  so  far  as  it  is  Literature,  is  an  'apocalypse  of 
Nature,'  a  revealing  of  the  'open  secret.'     It  may  well 


214  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

enough  be  named,  in  Ficlite's  style,  a  'continuous  revela- 
tion '  of  the  Godlike  in  the  Terrestrial  and  Common.  The 
Godlike  does  ever,  in  very  truth,  endure  there ;  is  brought 
out,  now  in  this  dialect,  now  in  that,  with  various  degrees 
of  clearness :  all  true  gifted  Singers  and  Speakers  are,  con- 
sciously or  unconsciously,  doing  so.  The  dark  stormful 
indignation  of  a  Byron,  so  wayward  and  perverse,  may 
have  touches  of  it ;  nay,  the  withered  mockery  of  a  French 
sceptic,  —  his  mockery  of  the  False,  a  love  and  worship  of 
the  True.  How  much  more  the  sphere-harmony  of  a  Shaks- 
peare,  of  a  Goethe ;  the  cathedral-music  of  a  Milton !  They 
are  something  too,  those  humble  genuine  lark-notes  of  a 
Burns, —  skylark,  starting  from  the  humble  furrow,  far 
overhead  into  the  blue  depths,  and  singing  to  us  so  genu- 
inely there!  For  all  true  singing  is  of  the  nature  of  wor- 
ship; as  indeed  all  true  ivorking  may  be  said  to  be, —  whereof 
such  singing  is  but  the  record,  and  fit  melodious  represen- 
tation, to  us.  Fragments  of  a  real  'Church  Liturgy'  and 
'Body  of  Homilies,'  strangely  disguised  from  the  common 
eye,  are  to  be  found  weltering  in  that  huge  froth-ocean  of 
Printed  Speech  we  loosely  call  Literature !  Books  are  our 
Church  too. 

Or  turning  now  to  the  Government  of  men.  Witenage- 
mote,  old  Parliament,  was  a  great  thing.  The  affairs  of 
the  nation  were  there  deliberated  and  decided;  what  we 
were  to  do  as  a  nation.  But  does  not,  though  the  name 
Parliament  subsists,  the  parliamentary  debate  go  on  now, 
everywhere  and  at  all  times,  in  a  far  more  comprehensive 
way,  out  of  Parliament  altogether?  Burke  said  there  were 
Three  Estates  in  Parliament;  but,  in  the  Reporters'  Gallery 
yonder,  there  sat  a  Fourth  Estate  more  important  far  than 
they  all.  It  is  not  a  figure  of  speech,  or  a  witty  saying ;  it 
is  a  literal  fact,  —  very  momentous  to  us  in  these  times. 
Literature  is  our  Parliament  too.  Printing,  which  comes 
necessarily  out  of  Writing,   I  say  often,  is  equivalent  to 


Heroes  and  Hero-tvorship.  215 

Democracy:  invent  Writing,  Democracy  is  inevitable. 
Writing  brings  Printing;  brings  universal  everyday  extem- 
pore Printing,  as  we  see  at  present.  Whoever  can  speak, 
speaking  now  to  the  whole  nation,  becomes  a  power, 
a  branch  of  government,  with  inalienable  weight  in  law- 
making, in  all  acts  of  authority.  It  matters  not  what  rank 
he  has,  what  revenues  or  garnitures :  the  requisite  thing  is, 
that  he  have  a  tongue  which  others  will  listen  to;  this  and- 
nothing  more  is  requisite.  The  nation  is  governed  by  all 
that  has  tongue  in  the  nation :  Democracy  is  virtually  there. 
Add  only,  that  whatsoever  power  exists  will  have  itself, 
by  and  by,  organized;  working  secretly  under  bandages, 
obscurations,  obstructions,  it  will  never  rest  till  it  get  to 
work  free,  unencumbered,  visible  to  all.  Democracy  virt- 
ually extant  will  insist  on  becoming  palpably  extant.  — 

On  all  sides,  are  we  not  driven  to  the  conclusion  that,  of 
the  things  which  man  can  do  or  make  here  below,  by  far 
the  most  momentous,  wonderful,  and  worth}^,  are  the  things 
we  call  Books !  Those  poor  bits  of  rag-paper  with  black 
ink  on  them ;  —  from  the  Daily  Newspaper  to  the  sacred 
Hebrew  Book,  what  have  they  not  done,  what  are  they  not 
doing !  —  For  indeed,  whatever  be  the  outward  form  of  the 
thing  (bits  of  paper,  as  we  say,  and  black  ink),  is  it  not 
verily,  at  bottom,  the  highest  act  of  man's  faculty  that  pro- 
duces a  Book?  It  is  the  Thought  of  man;  the  true  thau- 
maturgic  virtue ;  b}^  which  man  works  all  things  whatsoever. 
All  that  he  does,  and  brings  to  pass,  is  the  vesture  of  a 
Thought.  This  London  City,  with  all  its  houses,  palaces, 
steam-engines,  cathedrals,  and  huge  immeasurable  traffic 
and  tumult,  what  is  it  but  a  Thought,  but  millions  of 
Thoughts  made  into  One ;  —  a  huge  immeasurable  Spirit 
of  a  Thought,  embodied  in  brick,  in  iron,  smoke,  dust. 
Palaces,  Parliaments,  Hackney  Coaches,  Katherine  Docks, 
and  the  rest  of  it !  Not  a  brick  was  made  but  some  man 
had  to  think  of  the  making  of  that  brick. —  The  thing  we 


216     ,  Selections  from    Carlyle, 

called  'bits  of  paper  with  traces  of  black  ink,'  is  tlie  purest 
embodiment  a  Thought  of  man  can  have.  No  wonder  it  is, 
in  all  ways,  the  activest  and  noblest. 

All  this,  of  the  importance,  and  supreme  importance,  of 
the  Man  of  Letters  in  modern  Society,  and  how  the  Press 
is  to  such  a  degree  superseding  the  Pulpit,  the  Senate,  the 
Senatus  Academicus,  and  much  else,  has  been  admitted  for 
a  good  while;  and  recognized  often  enough,  in  late  times, 
with  a  sort  of  sentimental  triumph  and  wonderment.  It 
seems  to  me,  the  Sentimental  by  and  by  will  have  to  give 
place  to  the  Practical.  If  Men  of  Letters  are  so  incalcu- 
lably influential,  actually  performing  such  work  for  us  from 
age  to  age,  and  even  from  day  to  day,  then  I  think  we  may 
conclude  that  Men  of  Letters  will  not  always  wander  like 
unrecognized  unregulated  Ishmaelites  among  us !  Whatso- 
ever thing,  as  I  said  above,  has  virtual  unnoticed  power 
will  cast-off  its  wrappages,  bandages,  and  step-forth  one 
day  with  palpably  articulated,  universally  visible  power. 
That  one  man  wear  the  clothes,  and  take  the  wages,  of  a 
function  which  is  done  by  quite  another :  there  can  be  no 
profit  in  this;  this  is  not  right,  it  is  wrong.  And  yet, 
alas,  the  making  of  it  right,  —  what  a  business,  for  long 
times  to  come !  Sure  enough,  this  that  we  call  Organiza- 
tion of  the  Literary  Guild  is  still  a  great  way  off,  encum- 
bered with  all  manner  of  complexities.  If  you  asked  me 
what  were  the  best  possible  organization  for  the  Men  of 
Letters  in  modern  society;  the  arrangement  of  furtherance 
and  regulation,  grounded  the  most  accurately  on  the  actual 
facts  of  their  position  and  of  the  world's  position, —  I 
should  beg  to  say  that  the  problem  far  exceeded  my  faculty! 
It  is  not  one  man's  faculty;  it  is  that  of  many  successive 
men  turned  earnestly  upon  it,  that  will  bring-out  even  an 
approximate  solution.  What  the  best  arrangement  were, 
none  of  us  could  say.  But  if  you  ask,  'Which  is  the 
worst  ? '  I  answer :  This  which  we  now  have,  that  Chaos 


Heroes  and  Hero-ivorship.  217 

should  sit  umpire  in  it ;  this  is  the  worst.  To  the  best,  or 
any  good  one,  there  is  yet  a  long  Avay. 

One  remark  I  must  not  omit.  That  royal  or  parliamentary 
grants  of  money  are  by  no  means  the  chief  thing  wanted! 
To  give  our  Men  of  Letters  stipends,  endowments,  and  all 
furtherance  of  cash,  will  do  little  towards  the  business. 
On  the  whole,  one  is  weary  of  hearing  about  the  omnipo- 
tence of  money.  I  will  say  rather  that,  for  a  genuine  man, 
it  is  no  evil  to  be  poor;  that  there  ought  to  be  Literary 
Men  poor,  —  to  show  whether  they  are  genuine  or  not! 
Mendicant  Orders,  bodies  of  good  men  doomed  to  heg,  were 
instituted  in  the  Christian  Church ;  a  most  natural  and  even 
necessary  development  of  the  spirit  of  Christianity.  It 
was  itself  founded  on  Poverty,  on  Sorrow,  Contradiction, 
Crucifixion,  every  species  of  worldly  Distress  and  Degrada- 
tion. We  may  say  that  he  who  has  not  known  those 
things,  and  learned  from  them  the  priceless  lessons  they 
have  to  teach,  has  missed  a  good  opportunity  of  schooling. 
To  beg,  and  go  barefoot,  in  coarse  woolen  cloak  with  a  rope 
round  your  loins,  and  be  despised  of  all  the  world,  was  no 
beautiful  business;  — nor  an  honorable  one  in  any  eye,  till 
the  nobleness  of  those  who  did  so  had  made  it  honored  of 
some! 

Begging  is  not  in  our  course  at  the  present  time :  but  for 
the  rest  of  it,  who  will  say  that  a  Johnson  is  not  perhaps 
the  better  for  being  poor?  It  is  needful  for  him,  at  all 
rates,  to  know  that  outward  profit,  that  success  of  any  kind, 
is  not  the  goal  he  has  to  aim  at.  Pride,  vanity,  ill-con- 
ditioned egoism  of  all  sorts,  are  bred  in  his  heart,  as  in 
every  heart;  need,  above  all,  to  be  cast-out  of  his  heart, — 
to  be,  with  whatever  pangs,  torn-out  of  it,  cast-forth  from 
it,  as  a  thing  worthless.  Byron,  born  rich  and  noble, 
made -out  even  less  than  Burns,  poor  and  plebeian.  Who 
knows  but,  in  that  same  'best  possible  organization'  as  yet 
far  off,  Poverty  may  still  enter  as  an  important  element? 


218  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

What  if  our  Men  of  Letters,  men  setting-up  to  be  Spiritual 
Heroes,  were  still  then,  as  they  now  are,  a  kind  of  '  invol- 
untary monastic  order ; '  bound  still  to  this  same  ugly 
Poverty,  —  till  they  had  tried  what  was  in  it  too,  till  they 
had  learned  to  make  it  too  do  for  them !  Money,  in  truth, 
can  do  much,  but  it  cannot  do  all.  We  must  know  the 
province  of  it,  and  confine  it  there;  and  even  spurn  it 
back,  when  it  wishes  to  get  farther. 

Besides,  were  the  money-furtherances,  the  proper  season 
for  them,  the  lit  assigner  of  them,  all  settled,  —  how  is  the 
Burns  to  be  recognized  that  merits  these  ?  He  must  pass 
through  the  ordeal,  and  prove  himself.  This  ordeal ;  this 
wild  welter  of  a  chaos  which  is  called  Literary  Life :  this 
too  is  a  kind  of  ordeal !  There  is  clear  truth  in  the  idea 
that  a  struggle  from  the  lower  classes  of  society,  towards 
the  upper  regions  and  rewards  of  society,  must  ever  con- 
tinue. Strong  men  are  born  there,  who  ought  to  stand 
elsewhere  than  there.  The  manifold,  inextricably  complex, 
universal  struggle  of  these  constitutes,  and  must  constitute, 
what  is  called  the  progress  of  society.  For  Men  of  Letters, 
as  for  all  other  sorts  of  men.  How  to  regulate  that  struggle  ? 
There  is  the  whole  question.  To  leave  it  as  it  is,  at  the 
mercy  of  blind  Chance;  a  whirl  of  distracted  atoms,  one 
canceling  the  other  ;  one  of  the  thousand  arriving  saved, 
nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine  lost  by  the  way;  your  royal 
Johnson  languishing  inactive  in  garrets,  or  harnessed  to  the 
yoke  of  Printer  Cave ;  your  Burns  dying  broken-hearted  as 
a  Ganger;  your  Rousseau  driven  into  mad  exasperation, 
kindling  Prench  Revolutions  by  his  paradoxes :  this,  as  we 
said,  is  clearly  enough  the  worst  regulation.  The  best,  alas, 
is  far  from  us  ! 

And  yet  there  can  be  no  doubt  but  it  is  coming ;  advan- 
cing on  us,  as  yet  hidden  in  the  bosom  of  centuries :  this  is 
a  prophecy  one  can  risk.  For  so  soon  as  men  get  to  discern 
the  importance  of  a  thing,  they  do  infallibly  set  about  ar- 


Heroes  and  Hero-ivorship.  219 

ranging  it,  facilitating,  forwarding  it;  and  rest  not  till,  in 
some  approximate  degree,  they  have  accomplished  that.  I 
say,  of  all  Priesthoods,  Aristocracies,  Governing  Classes,  at 
present  extant  in  the  world,  there  is  no  class  comparable  for 
importance  to  that  Priesthood  of  the  Writers  of  Books.  This 
is  a  fact  which  he  who  runs  may  read,  — and  draw  inferences 
from.  "  Literature  will  take  care  of  itself,"  answered  Mr. 
Pitt,  when  applied-to  for  some  help  for  Burns.  "Yes," 
adds  Mr.  Southey,  "  it  will  take  care  of  itself  ;  and  of  you  too^ 
if  you  do  not  look  to  it !  " 

The  result  to  individual  Men  of  Letters  is  not  the  mo- 
mentous one;  they  are  but  individuals,  an  infinitesimal 
fraction  of  the  great  body ;  they  can  struggle  on,  and  live 
or  else  die,  as  they  have  been  wont.  But  it  deeply  concerns 
the  whole  society,whether  it  will  set  its  light  on  high  places, 
to  walk  thereby ;  or  trample  it  under  foot,  and  scatter  it  in 
all  ways  of  wild  waste  (not  without  conflagration),  as  hereto- 
fore !  Light  is  the  one  thing  wanted  for  the  world.  Put 
wisdom  in  the  head  of  the  world,  the  world  will  fight  its 
battle  victoriously,  and  be  the  best  world  man  can  make  it. 
I  call  this  anomaly  of  a  disorganic  Literary  Class  the  heart 
of  all  other  anomalies,  at  once  product  and  parent;  some 
good  arrangement  for  that  would  be  as  the  picnctum  saliens 
of  a  new  vitality  and  just  arrangement  for  all.  Already, 
in  some  European  countries,  in  France,  in  Prussia,  one 
traces  some  beginnings  of  an  arrangement  for  the  Literary 
Class  ;  indicating  the  gradual  possibility  of  such.  I  believe 
that  it  is  possible ;  that  it  will  have  to  be  possible. 

By  far  the  most  interesting  fact  I  hear  about  the  Chinese 
is  one  on  which  we  cannot  arrive  at  clearness,  but  which  ex- 
cites endless  curiosity  even  in  the  dim  state :  this  namely, 
that  they  do  attempt  to  make  their  Men  of  Letters  their 
Governors !  It  would  be  rash  to  say  one  understood  how 
this  was  done,  or  with  what  degree  of  success  it  was  done. 
All  such  things  must  be  very  it^isuccessful ;  yet  a  small  de- 


220  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

gree  of  success  is  precious  ;  the  very  attempt  how  precious ! 
There  does  seem  to  be,  all  over  China,  a  more  or  less  active 
search  everywhere  to  discover  the  men  of  talent  that  grow 
up  in  the  young  generation.  Schools  there  are  for  every 
one  :  a  foolish  sort  of  training,  yet  still  a  sort.  The  youths 
who  distinguish  themselves  in  the  lower  school  are  promoted 
into  favorable  stations  in  the  higher,  that  they  may  still 
more  distinguish  themselves,  —  forward  and  forward: 
it  appears  to  be  out  of  these  that  the  Official  Persons, 
and  incipient  Governors,  are  taken.  These  are  they  whom 
they  try  first,  whether  they  can  govern  or  not.  And  surely 
with  the  best  hope  :  for  they  are  the  men  that  have  already 
shown  intellect.  Try  them :  they  have  not  governed  or  ad- 
ministered as  yet ;  perhaps  they  cannot ;  but  there  is  no 
doubt  they  have  some  Understanding,  —  without  which  no 
man  can !  Neither  is  Understanding  a  too?,  as  we  are  too  apt  to 
figure ;  '  it  is  a  hand  which  can  handle  any  tool.'  Try  these 
men  :  they  are  of  all  others  the  best  worth  trying. —  Surely 
there  is  no  kind  of  government,  constitution,  revolution,  so- 
cial apparatus  or  arrangement,  that  I  know  of  in  this  world, 
so  promising  to  one's  scientific  curiosity  as  this.  The  man 
of  intellect  at  the  top  of  affairs :  this  is  the  aim  of  all  consti- 
tutions and  revolutions,  if  they  have  any  aim.  For  the 
man  of  true  intellect,  as  I  assert  and  believe  always,  is  the 
noble-hearted  man  withal,  the  true,  just,  humane,  and  val- 
iant man.  Get  him  for  governor,  all  is  got ;  fail  to  get  him, 
though  you  had  Constitutions  plentiful  as  blackberries,  and 
a  Parliament  in  every  village,  there  is  nothing  yet  got !  — 

These  things  look  strange,  truly ;  and  are  not  such  as  we 
commonly  speculate  upon.  But  we  are  fallen  into  strange 
times ;  these  things  will  require  to  be  speculated  upon ;  to 
be  rendered  practicable,  to  be  in  some  way  put  in  practice. 
These,  and  many  others.  On  all  hands  of  us,  there  is  the 
announcement,  audible  enough,  that  the  old  Empire  of  Rou- 
tine has  ended :  that  to  say  a  thing  has  long  been,  is  no 


Heroes  and  Hero-ivorship.  221 

reason  for  its  continuing  to  be.  The  things  which  have  been 
are  fallen  into  decay,  are  fallen  into  incompetence;  large 
masses  of  mankind,  in  every  society  of  our  Europe,  are  no 
longer  capable  of  living  at  all  by  the  things  which  have 
been.  When  millions  of  men  can  no  longer  by  their  utmost 
exertion  gain  food  for  themselves,  and  '  the  third  man  for 
thirty-six  weeks  each  year  is  short  of  third-rate  potatoes,' 
the  things  which  have  been  must  decidedly  prepare  to  alter 
themselves  !  —  I  will  now  quit  this  of  the  organization  of 
Men  of  Letters. 

Alas,  the  evil  that  pressed  heaviest  on  those  Literary 
Heroes  of  ours  was  not  the  want  of  organization  for  Men  of 
Letters,  but  a  far  deeper  one  ;  out  of  which,  indeed,  this  and 
so  many  other  evils  for  the  Literary  Man  and  for  all  men,  had, 
as  from  their  fountain,  taken  rise.  That  our  Hero  as  Man 
of  Letters  had  to  travel  without  highway,  companionless, 
through  an  inorganic  chaos,  —  and  to  leave  his  own  life  and 
faculty  lying  there,  as  a  partial  contribution  towards  push- 
ing some  highway  through  it :  this,  had  not  his  faculty  itself 
been  so  perverted  and  paralyzed,  he  might  have  put-up  with, 
might  have  considered  to  be  but  the  common  lot  of  Heroes. 
His  fatal  misery  was  the  spiritual  paralysis,  so  we  may  name 
it,  of  the  Age  in  which  his  life  lay ;  whereby  his  life  too, 
do  what  he  might,  was  half-paralyzed !  The  Eighteenth 
was  a  Sceptical  Century ;  in  which  little  word  there  is  a 
whole  Pandora's  Box  of  miseries.  Scepticism  means  not 
intellectual  Doubt  alone,  but  moral  Doubt ;  all  sorts  of  nzfi- 
delity,  insincerity,  spiritual  paralysis.  Perhaps,  in  few 
centuries  that  one  could  specify  since  the  world  began,  was 
a  life  of  Heroism  more  difficult  for  a  man.  That  was  not  an 
age  of  Faith,  —  an  age  of  Heroes  !  The  very  possibility  of 
Heroism  had  been,  as  it  were,  formally  abnegated  in  the 
minds  of  all.  Heroism  was  gone  forever;  Triviality,  For- 
mulism, and  Commonplace  were  come  forever.     The  '  age  of 


222  Selections  from  Carlyle. 

miracles '  had  been,  or  perhaps  had  not  been ;  but  it  was  not 
any  longer.  An  effete  world ;  wherein  Wonder,  Greatness, 
Godhood  could  not  now  dwell ;  —  in  one  word,  a  godless 
world ! 

How  mean,  dwarfish,  are  their  ways  of  thinking,  in  this 
time,  —  compared  not  with  the  Christian  Shakspeares  and 
Miltons,  but  with  the  old  Pagan  Skalds,  with  any  species  of 
believing  men  !  The  living  Tree  Igdrasil,  with  the  melodi- 
ous prophetic  waving  of  its  world-wide  boughs,  deep-rooted 
as  Hela,  has  died-out  into  the  clanking  of  a  World-MAcnmE. 
<■  Tree '  and  '  Machine  ' :  contrast  these  two  things.  I,  for 
my  share,  declare  the  world  to  be  no  machine !  I  say  that 
it  does  not  go  by  wheel-and-pinion  '  motives,'  self-interests, 
checks,  balances;  that  there  is  something  far  other  in  it 
than  the  clank  of  spinning-jennies,  and  parliamentary 
majorities;  and,  on  the  whole,  that  it  is  not  a  machine  at 
all !  _  The  old  Norse  Heathen  had  a  truer  notion  of  God's- 
world  than  these  poor  Machine-Sceptics :  the  old  Heathen 
Norse  were  sincere  men.  But  for  these  poor  Sceptics  there 
was  no  sincerity,  no  truth.  Half-truth  and  hearsay  was 
called  truth.  Truth,  for  most  men,  meant  plausibility ;  to 
be  measured  by  the  number  of  votes  you  could  get.  They 
had  lost  any  notion  that  sincerity  was  possible,  or  of  what 
sincerity  was.  How  many  Plausibilities  asking,  with  unaf- 
fected surprise  and  the  air  of  offended  virtue,  '  What !  am 
not  I  sincere  ?  '  Spiritual  Paralysis,  I  say,  nothing  left  but 
a  Mechanical  life,  was  the  characteristic  of  that  century.  For 
the  common  man,  unless  happily  he  stood  beloiv  his  century 
and  belonged  to  another  prior  one,  it  was  impossible  to  be  a 
Believer,  a  Hero  ;  he  lay  buried,  unconscious,  under  these 
baleful  influences.  To  the  strongest  man,  only  with  infinite 
struggle  and  confusion  was  it  possible  to  work  himself  half- 
loose  ;  and  lead  as  it  were,  in  an  enchanted,  most  tragical 
way,  a  spiritual  death-in-life,  and  be  a  Half-Hero  ! 

Scepticism  is  the  name  we  give  to  all  this ;  as  the  chief 


Heroes  and  Hero-ivorsTiip.  223 


symptom,  as  the  chief  origin  of  all  this.  Concerning 
which  so  much  were  to  be  said !  It  would  take  many  Dis- 
courses, not  a  small  fraction  of  one  Discourse,  to  state  what 
one  feels  about  that  Eighteenth  Century  and  its  ways.  As 
indeed  this,  and  the  like  of  this,  which  we  now  call  Scepti- 
cism, is  precisely  the  black  malady  and  life-foe,  against 
which  all  teaching  and  discoursing  since  man's  life  began 
has  directed  itself:  the  battle  of  Belief  against  Unbelief  is 
the  never-ending  battle !  Neither  is  it  in  the  way  of  crimi- 
nation that  one  would  wish  to  speak.  Scepticism,  for  that 
century,  we  must  consider  as  the  decay  of  old  ways  of 
believing,  the  preparation  afar  off  for  new,  better,  and 
wider  ways, —  an  inevitable  thing.  We  will  not  blame  men 
for  it;  we  will  lament  their  hard  fate.  We  will  under- 
stand that  destruction  of  old  forms  is  not  destruction  of 
ever-lasting  substances;  that  Scepticism,  as  sorrowful  and 
hateful  as  we  see  it,  is  not  an  end,  but  a  beginning. 
********* 
Belief  I  define  to  be  the  healthy  act  of  a  man's  mind.  It 
is  a  mysterious  indescribable  process,  that  of  getting  to 
believe;  —  indescribable,  as  all  vital  acts  are.  We  have 
our  mind  given  us,  not  that  it  may  cavil  and  argue,  but 
that  it  may  see  into  something,  give  us  clear  belief  and 
understanding  about  something,  whereon  we  are  then  to 
proceed  to  act.  Doubt,  truly,  is  not  itself  a  crime.  Cer- 
tainly we  do  not  rush  out,  clutch-up  the  first  thing  we 
find,  and  straightway  believe  that!  All  manner  of  doubt, 
inquiry,  (tk€i(/l^  as  it  is  named,  about  all  manner  of  objects, 
dwells  in  every  reasonable  mind.  It  is  the  mystic  work- 
ing of  the  mind,  on  the  object  it  is  getting  to  know  and 
believe.  Belief  comes  out  of  all  this,  above  ground,  like 
the  tree  from  its  hidden  roots.  But  now  if,  even  on  com- 
mon things,  we  require  that  a  man  keep  his  doubts  silent, 
and  not  babble  of  them  till  they  in  some  measure  become 
affirmations  or  denials;  how  much  more  in  regard  to  the 


224  Selections  from  Carlyle. 

highest  things,  impossible  to  speak-of  in  words  at  all! 
That  a  man  parade  his  doubt,  and  get  to  imagine  that 
debating  and  logic  (which  means  at  best  only  the  manner 
of  telling  us  your  thought,  your  belief  or  disbelief,  about  a 
thing)  is  the  triumph  and  true  work  of  what  intellect  he 
has:  alas,  this  is  as  if  you  should  overturn  the  tree,  and 
instead  of  green  boughs,  leaves,  and  fruits,  show  us  ugly 
taloned  roots  turned-up  into  the  air, —  and  no  growth,  only 
death  and  misery  going-on! 

For  the  Scepticism,  as  I  said,  is  not  intellectual  only ;  it 
is  moral  also;  a  chronic  atrophy  and  disease  of  the  whole 
soul.  A  man  lives  by  believing  something;  not  by  debat- 
ing and  arguing  about  many  things.  A  sad  case  for  him 
when  all  that  he  can  manage  to  believe  is  something  he  can 
button  in  his  j^ocket,  and  with  one  or  the  other  organ  eat 
and  digest!  Lower  than  that  he  will  not  get.  We  call 
those  ages  in  which  he  gets  so  low  the  mournfulest,  sickest, 
and  meanest  of  all  ages.  The  world's  heart  is  palsied, 
sick:  how  can  any  limb  of  it  be  whole?  Genuine  Acting 
ceases  in  aii  departments  of  the  world's  work;  dextrous 
Similitude  of  Acting  begins.  The  world's  wages  are  pock- 
eted, the  world's  work  is  not  done.  Heroes  have  gone- 
out;  Quacks  have  come-in.  Accordingly,  what  Century, 
since  the  end  of  the  Roman  world,  which  also  was  a 
time  of  scepticism,  simulacra,  and  universal  decadence,  so 
abounds  with  Quacks  as  that  Eighteenth?  Consider  them, 
with  their  tumid  sentimental  vaporing  about  virtue,  benev- 
olence,—  the  wretched  Quack-squadron,  Cagliostro  at  the 
head  of  them !  Few  men  were  without  quackery ;  they  had 
got  to  consider  it  a  necessary  ingredient  and  amalgam  for 
truth.  Chatham,  our  brave  Chatham  himself,  comes  down 
to  the  House,  all  wrapt  and  bandaged;  he  'has  crawled  out 
in  great  bodily  suffering,'  and  so  on; — forgets,  says  Wal- 
pole,  that  he  is  acting  the  sick  man;  in  the  fire  of  debate, 
snatches  his  arm  from  the  sling,   and  oratorically  swings 


Heroes  and  Hero-ivorship.  225 

and  brandishes  it!  Chatham  himself  lives  the  strangest 
mimetic  life,  half-hero,  half-quack,  all  along.  For  indeed 
the  world  is  full  of  dupes ;  and  you  have  to  gain  the  loorkVs 
suffrage !  How  the  duties  of  the  world  will  be  done  in  tliat 
case,  what  quantities  of  error,  which  means  failure,  which 
means  sorrow  and  misery  to  some  and  to  many,  will  gradu- 
ally accumulate  in  all  provinces  of  the  world's  business,  we 
need  not  compute. 

It  seems  to  me,  you  lay  your  finger  here  on  the  heart  of 
the  world's  maladies,  when  you  call  it  a  Scej^tical  World. 
An  insincere  world;  a  godless  untruth  of  a  world!  It  is 
out  of  this,  as  I  consider,  that  the  whole  tribe  of  social 
pestilences,  French  Eevolutions,  Chartisms,  and  what  not, 
have  derived  their  being, —  their  chief  necessity  to  be. 
This  must  alter.  Till  this  alter,  nothing  can  beneficially 
alter.  My  one  hope  of  the  world,  my  inexpugnable  con- 
solation in  looking  at  the  miseries  of  the  world,  is  that  this 
is  altering.  Here  and  there  one  does  now  find  a  man  who 
knows,  as  of  old,  that  this  world  is  a  Truth,  and  no  Plausi- 
bility and  Falsity;  that  he  himself  is  alive,  not  dead  or 
paralytic;  and  that  the  world  is  alive,  instinct  with  God- 
hood,  beautiful  and  awful,  even  as  in  the  beginning  of 
days!  One  man  once  knowing  this,  many  men,  all  men, 
must  by  and  by  come  to  know  it.  It  lies  there  clear,  for 
whosoever  will  take  the  spectacles  off  his  eyes  and  honestly 
look,  to  know!  For  such  a  man  the  Unbelieving  Century, 
with  its  unblessed  Products,  is  already  past :  a  new  century 
is  already  come.  The  old  unblessed  Products  and  Perform- 
ances, as  solid  as  they  look,  are  Phantasms,  preparing 
speedily  to  vanish.  To  this  and  the  other  noisy,  very 
great-looking  Simulacrum  with  the  whole  world  huzzahing 
at  its  heels,  he  can  say,  composedly  stepping  aside:  'Thou 
art  not  true;  thou  art  not  extant,  only  semblant;  go  thy 
^vay!'  —  Yes,  hollow  Formulism,  gross  Benthamism,  and 
other  unheroic   atheistic    Insincerity   is   visibly   and  even 


226  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

rapidly  declining.  An  nnbelieving  Eighteenth  Century  is 
but  an  exception, —  such  as  now  and  then  occurs.  I  pro- 
phesy that  the  world  will  once  more  become  sincere;  a 
believing  world;  with  many  Heroes  in  it,  a  heroic  world! 
It  will  then  be  a  victorious  world;  never  till  then. 

Or  indeed,  what  of  the  world  and  its  victories?  Men 
speak  too  much  about  the  world.  Each  one  of  us  here,  let 
the  world  go  how  it  will,  and  be  victorious  or  not  victori- 
ous, has  he  not  a  Life  of  his  own  to  lead?  One  Life;  a 
little  gleam  of  Time  between  two  Eternities;  no  second 
chance  to  us  f orevermore !  It  were  well  for  us  to  live  not 
as  fools  and  simulacra,  but  as  wise  and  realities.  The 
world's  being  saved  will  not  save  us;  nor  the  world's  being 
lost  destroy  us.  We  should  look  to  ourselves:  there  is 
great  merit  here  in  the  'duty  of  staying  at  home  ' !  And, 
on  the  whole,  to  say  truth,  I  never  heard  of  'worlds '  being 
'saved '  in  any  other  way.  That  mania  of  saving  worlds  is 
itself  a  piece  of  the  Eighteenth  Century  with  its  windy 
sentimentalism.  Let  us  not  follow  it  too  far.  Eor  the 
saving  of  the  world  I  will  trust  confidently  to  the  Maker  of 
the  w^orld ;  and  look  a  little  to  my  own  saving,  which  I  am 
more  competent  to! —  In  brief,  for  the  world's  sake,  and 
for  our  own,  we  will  rejoice  greatly  that  Scepticism,  Insin- 
cerity, Mechanical  Atheism,  with  all  their  poison-dews, 
are  going,  and  as  good  as  gone. 

Now  it  was  under  such  conditions,  in  those  times  of 
Johnson,  that  our  Men  of  Letters  had  to  live.  Times  in 
which  there  was  properly  no  truth  in  life.  Old  truths  had 
fallen  nigh  dumb;  the  new  lay  yet  hidden,  not  trying  to 
speak.  That  Man's  Life  here  below  was  a  Sincerity  and 
Fact,  and  w^ould  forever  continue  such,  no  new  intimation, 
in  that  dusk  of  the  world,  had  yet  dawned.  No  intima- 
tion ;  not  even  any  French  Kevolution,  —  which  we  define  to 
be  a  Truth  once  more,  though  a  Truth  clad  in  hellfire! 
How  different  was  the   Luther's   pilgrimage,  with   its  as- 


Heroes  and  Hero-worship.  227 

sured  goal,  from  the  Jolinson's,  girt  with  mere  traditions, 
suppositions,  grown  now  incredible,  unintelligible !  Ma- 
homet's Formulas  were  of  'wood,  waxed  and  oiled,'  and 
could  be  burnt  out  of  one's  way:  poor  Johnson's  were  far 
more  difficult  to  burn.— The  strong  man  will  ever  find 
work,  which  means  difficulty,  pain,  to  the  full  measure  of 
his  strength.  But  to  make-out  a  victor}^,  in  those  circum- 
stances of  our  poor  Hero  as  Man  of  Letters,  was  perhaps 
more  difficult  than  in  any.  Xot  obstruction,  disorganiza- 
tion. Bookseller  Osborne  and  Fourpence-half penny  a  day; 
not  this  alone;  but  the  light  of  his  own  soul  was  taken 
from  him.  Xo  landmark  on  the  Earth ;  and,  alas,  what  is 
that  to  having  no  loadstar  in  the  Heaven !  We  need  not 
wonder  that  none  of  those  Three  men  rose  to  victory.  That 
they  fought  truly  is  the  highest  praise.  With  a  mournful 
sympathy  we  will  contemplate,  if  not  three  living  victorious 
Heroes,  as  I  said,  the  Tombs  of  three  fallen  Heroes !  They 
fell  for  us  too;  making  a  way  for  us.  There  are  the  moun- 
tains which  they  hurled  abroad  in  their  confused  War  of 
the  Giants;  under  which,  their  strength  and  life  spent, 
they  now  lie  buried. 

I  have  already  written  of  these  three  Literary  Heroes, 
expressly  or  incidentally ;  what  I  suppose  is  known  to  most 
of  you;  what  need  not  be  spoken  or  written  a  second  time. 
They  concern  us  here  as  the  singular  Prophets  of  that  sin- 
gular age;  for  such  they  virtually  were;  and  the  aspect 
they  and  their  world  exhibit,  under  this  point  of  view, 
might  lead  us  into  reflections  enough!  I  call  them,  all 
three,  Genuine  Men  more  or  less ;  faithfully,  for  most  part 
unconsciously,  struggling  to  be  genuine,  and  plant  them- 
selves on  the  everlasting  truth  of  things.  This  to  a  degree 
that  eminently  distinguishes  them  from  the  poor  artificial 
mass  of  their  contemporaries ;  and  renders  them  worthy  to 
be  considered  as  Speakers,  in  some  measure,  of  the  ever- 


228  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

lasting  truth,  as  Prophets  in  that  age  of  theirs.  By  Nature 
herself  a  noble  necessity  was  laid  on  them  to  be  so.  They 
were  men  of  such  magnitude  that  they  could  not  live  on 
unrealities, —  clouds,  froth,  and  all  inanity  gave- way  under 
them :  there  was  no  footing  for  them  but  on  firm  earth ;  no 
rest  or  regular  motion  for  them,  if  they  got  not  footing- 
there.  To  a  certain  extent,  they  were  Sons  of  Nature  once 
more  in  an  age  of  Artifice;  once  more.  Original  Men. 

As  for  Johnson,  I  have  always  considered  him  to  be,  by 
nature,  one  of  our  great  English  souls.  A  strong  and  noble 
man;  so  much  left  undeveloped  in  him  to  the  last:  in  a 
kindlier  element  what  might  he  not  have  been, —  Poet, 
Priest,  sovereign  Euler!  On  the  whole,  a  man  must  not 
complain  of  his  'element,'  of  his  'time,'  or  the  like;  it  is 
thriftless  work  doing  so.  His  time  is  bad:  well  then,  he 
is  there  to  make  it  better!  —  Johnson's  youth  was  poor, 
isolated,  hopeless,  very  miserable.  Indeed,  it  does  not 
seem  possible  that,  in  any  the  favorablest  outward  circum- 
stances, Johnson's  life  could  have  been  other  than  a  pain- 
ful one.  The  world  might  have  had  more  of  profitable 
work  out  of  him,  or  less ;  but  his  effort  against  the  world's 
work  could  never  have  been  a  light  one.  Nature,  in  return 
for  his  nobleness,  had  said  to  him,  '  Live  in  an  element  of 
diseased  sorrow.'  Nay,  perhaps  the  sorrow  and  the  noble- 
ness were  intimately  and  even  inseparably  connected  with 
each  other.  At  all  events,  poor  Johnson  had  to  go  about 
girt  with  continual  hypochondria,  physical  and  spiritual 
pain.  Like  a  Hercules  with  the  burning  Nessus-shirt  on 
him,  which  shoots-in  on  him*  dull  incurable  misery:  the 
Nessus-shirt  not  to  be  stript-off,  which  is  his  own  natural 
skin !  In  this  manner  he  had  to  live.  Pigure  him  there, 
with  his  scrofulous  diseases,  with  his  great  greedy  heart, 
and  unspeakable  chaos  of  thoughts ;  stalking  mournful  as  a 
stranger  in  this  Earth;  eagerly  devouring  what  spiritual 
thing  he  could  come  at :  school-languages  and  other  merely 


Heroes  and  Hero-icorship,  229 

grammatical  stuff,  if  tliere  were  nothing  better!  The 
largest  soul  that  was  in  all  England;  and  provision  made 
for  it  of  'fonrpence-half penny  a  day.'  Yet  a  giant  invin- 
cible soul;  a  true  man's.  One  remembers  always  that  story 
of  the  shoes  at  Oxford:  the  rough,  seamy-faced,  rawboned 
College  Servitor  stalking  about,  in  winter-season,  with  his 
shoes  worn-out;  how  the  charitable  Gentleman  Commoner 
secretly  places  a  new  pair  at  his  door;  and  the  rawboned 
Servitor,  lifting  them,  looking  at  them  near,  with  his  dim 
eyes,  with  what  thoughts,  —  pitches  them  out  of  window! 
AVet  feet,  mud,  frost,  hunger,  or  what  you  will;  but  not 
beggary:  we  cannot  stand  beggary!  Eude  stubborn  self- 
help  here;  a  whole  world  of  squalor,  rudeness,  confused 
misery  and  want,  yet  of  nobleness  and  manfulness  withal. 
It  is  a  type  of  the  man's  life,  this  pitching-away  of  the 
shoes.  An  original  man;  —  not  a  secondhand,  borrowing 
or  begging  man.  Let  us  stand  on  our  own  basis,  at  any 
rate!  On  such  shoes  as  we  ourselves  can  get.  On  frost 
and  mud,  if  you  will,  but  honestly  on  that;  —  on  the  reality 
and  substance  which  Nature  gives  us,  not  on  the  semblance, 
on  the  thing  she  has  given  another  than  us ! 

And  yet  with  all  this  rugged  pride  of  manhood  and  self- 
help,  was  there  ever  soul  more  tenderly  affectionate,  loyally 
submissive  to  what  was  really  higher  than  he?  Great  souls 
are  always  loyally  submissive,  reverent  to  what  is  over 
them;  only  small  mean  souls  are  otherwise.  I  could  not 
find  a  better  proof  of  what  I  said  the  other  day,  That  the 
sincere  man  was  by  nature  the  obedient  man ;  that  only  in 
a  World  of  Heroes  was  there  loyal  Obedience  to  the  Heroic. 
The  essence  of  originality  is  not  that  it  be  new :  Johnson 
believed  altogether  in  the  old ;  he  found  the  old  opinions 
credible  for  him,  fit  for  him ;  and  in  a  right  heroic  manner 
lived  under  them.  He  is  well  worth  study  in  regard  to 
that.  For  we  are  to  say  that  Johnson  was  far  other  than 
a  mere  man  of  words  and  formulas;  he  was  a  man  of  truths 


230  Selections  from  Carlyle. 

and  facts.  He  stood  by  the  old  formulas;  the  happier  was 
it  for  him  that  he  could  so  stand :  but  in  all  formulas  that 
he  could  stand  by,  there  needed  to  be  a  most  genuine  sub- 
stance. Very  curious  how,  in  that  poor  Paper-age,  so 
barren,  artificial,  thick-quilted  with  Pedantries,  Hearsays, 
the  great  Fact  of  this  Universe  glared-in,  forever  wonder- 
ful, indubitable,  unspeakable,  divine-infernal,  upon  this 
man  too!  How  he  harmonized  his  Formulas  with  it,  how 
he  managed  at  all  under  such  circumstances:  that  is  a 
thing  worth  seeing.  A  thing  'to  be  looked  at  with  rever- 
ence, with  pity,  with  awe.'  That  Church  of  St.  Clement 
Danes,  where  Johnson  still  tvorshiped  in  the  era  of  Voltaire, 
is  to  me  a  venerable  place. 

It  was  in  virtue  of  his  sincerity,  of  his  speaking  still  in 
some  sort  from  the  heart  of  ]Srature,  though  in  the  current 
artificial  dialect,  that  Johnson  was  a  Prophet.  Are  not  all 
dialects  'artificial'?  Artificial  things  are  not  all  false;  — 
nay,  every  true  Product  of  jSTature  will  infallibly  shape 
itself;  we  may  say  all  artificial  things  are,  at  the  starting 
of  them,  true.  What  we  call  'Formulas  '  are  not  in  their 
origin  bad;  they  are  indispensably  good.  Formula  is 
method,  habitude;  found  wherever  man  is  found.  Formu- 
las fashion  themselves  as  Paths  do,  as  beaten  Highways, 
leading  towards  some  sacred  or  high  object,  whither  many 
men  are  bent.  Consider  it.  One  man,  full  of  heartfelt 
earnest  impulse,  finds-out  a  way  of  doing  somewhat,  —  were 
it  of  uttering  his  soul's  reverence  for  the  Highest,  were  it 
but  of  fitly  saluting  his  fellow-man.  An  inventor  was 
needed  to  do  that,  a  poe^;  he  has  articulated  the  dim- 
struggling  thought  that  dwelt  in  his  own  and  many  hearts. 
This  is  his  way  of  doing  that;  these  are  his  footsteps,  the 
beginning  of  a  'Path.'  And  now  see:  the  second  man 
travels  naturally  in  the  footsteps  of  his  foregoer;  it  is  the 
easiest  method.  In  the  footsteps  of  his  foregoer;  yet  with 
improvements,  with  changes  where  sucli  seem  good;  at  all 


Heroes  and  Hero-ivorsliip.  231 

events  with  enlargements,  the  Path  ever  tvidening  itself  as 
more  travel  it ;  —  till  at  last  there  is  a  broad  Highway 
whereon  the  whole  world  may  travel  and  drive.  While 
there  remains  a  City  or  Shrine,  or  any  Reality  to  drive  to, 
at  the  farther  end,  the  Highway  shall  be  right  welcome! 
When  the  City  is  gone,  we  will  forsake  the  Highway.  In 
this  manner  all  Institutions,  Practices,  Regulated  Things 
in  the  world  have  come  into  existence,  and  gone  out  of 
existence.  Formulas  all  begin  by  being  full  of  substance; 
you  may  call  them  the  skin,  the  articulation  into  shape, 
into  limbs  and  skin,  of  a  substance  that  is  already  there : 
they  had  not  been  there  otherwise.  Idols,  as  we  said,  are 
not  idolatrous  till  they  become  doubtful,  empty  for  the  wor- 
shiper's heart.  Much  as  we  talk  against  Formulas,  I  hope 
no  one  of  us  is  ignorant  withal  of  the  high  significance  of 
true  Formulas;  that  they  were,  and  will  ever  be,  the  indis- 
pensablest  furniture  of  our  habitation  in  this  world.  — 

Mark,  too,  how  little  Johnson  boasts  of  his  'sincerity.' 
He  has  no  suspicion  of  his  being  particularly  sincere, —  of 
his  being  particularly  anything!  A  hard-struggling,  weary- 
hearted  man,  or  'scholar'  as  he  calls  himself,  trying  hard 
to  get  some  honest  livelihood  in  the  world,  not  to  starve, 
but  to  live  —  without  stealing!  A  noble  unconsciousness  is 
in  him.  He  does  not  'engrave  TrutJi  on  his  watch-seal ; ' 
no,  but  he  stands  by  truth,  speaks  by  it,  works  and  lives 
by  it.  Thus  it  ever  is.  Think  of  it  once  more.  The  man 
whom  iSTature  has  appointed  to  do  great  things  is,  first  of 
all,  furnished  with  that  openness  to  Nature  which  renders 
him  incapable  of  being  msincere!  To  his  large,  open, 
deep-feeling  heart  Mature  is  a  Fact:  all  hearsay  is  hearsay; 
the  unspeakable  greatness  of  this  Mystery  of  Life,  let  him 
acknowledge  it  or  not, —  nay,  even  though  he  seem  to  forget 
it  or  deny  it,  —  is  ever  present  to  him;  fearful  and  wonder- 
ful, on  this  hand  and  on  that.  He  has  a  basis  of  sincerity ; 
unrecognized,  because  never  questioned  or  capable  of  ques- 


232  Selections  from  Carlyle. 

tion.  Mirabeau,  Mahomet,  Cromwell,  Napoleon:  all  the 
Great  Men  I  ever  heard-of  have  this  as  the  primary  mate- 
rial of  them.  Innumerable  commonplace  men  are  debating, 
are  talking  everywhere  their  commonplace  doctrines,  which 
they  have  learned  by  logic,  by  rote,  at  secondhand :  to  that 
kind  of  man  all  this  is  still  nothing.  He  must  have  truth ; 
truth  which  he  feels  to  be  true.  How  shall  he  stand  other- 
wise? His  whole  soul,  at  all  moments,  in  all  ways,  tells 
him  that  there  is  no  standing.  He  is  under  the  noble 
necessity  of  being  true.  Johnson's  way  of  thinking  about 
this  world  is  not  mine,  any  more  than  Mahomet's  was:  but 
i  recognize  the  everlasting  element  of  heart-smcer%  in 
both;  and  see  with  pleasure  how  neither  of  them  remains 
ineffectual.  Neither  of  them  is  as  chaff  sown;  in  both  of 
them  is  something  which  the  seed-field  will  grow. 

Johnson  was  a  Prophet  to  his  people ;  preached  a  Gospel 
to  them,  —  as  all  like  him  always  do.  The  highest  Gospel 
he  preached  we  may  describe  as  a  kind  of  Moral  Prudence : 
^in  a  world  where  much  is  to  be  done,  and  little  is  to  be 
known,'  see  how  you  will  do  it!  A  thing  well  worth 
preaching.  'A  world  where  much  is  to  be  done,  and  little 
is  to  be  known : '  do  not  sink  yourselves  in  boundless 
bottomless  abysses  of  Doubt,  of  wretched  god-forgetting 
Unbelief ;  —  you  were  miserable  then,  powerless,  mad :  how 
could  you  do  or  work  at  all?  Such  Gospel  Johnson  preached 
and  taught ;  —  coupled,  theoretically  and  practically,  with 
this  other  great  Gospel,  'Clear  your  mind  of  Cant! '  Have 
no  trade  with  Cant:  stand  on  the  cold  mud  in  the  frosty 
weather,  but  let  it.be  in  your  own  real  torn  shoes:  'that 
will  be  better  for  you, '  as  Mahomet  says !  I  call  this,  I  call 
these  two  things  joined  together,  a  great  Gospel,  the  greatest 
perhaps  that  was  possible  at  that  time. 

Johnson's  Writings,  which  once  had  such  currency  and 
celebrity,  are  now,  as  it  were,  disowned  by  the  young  gener- 
ation.    It  is  not   wonderful;   Johnson's    opinions   are   fast 


Heroes  and  Hero-worship.  233 

becoming  obsolete  :  but  liis  style  of  thinking  and  of  living, 
we  may  hope,  will  never  become  obsolete.  I  find  in  John- 
son's Books  the  indisputablest  traces  of  a  great  intellect 
and  great  heart ;  —  ever  welcome,  under  what  obstructions 
and  perversions  soever.  They  are  sincere  words,  those  of 
his  ;  he  means  things  by  them.  A  wondrous  buckram  style, 
—  the  best  he  could  get-to  then ;  a  measured  grandiloquence, 
stepping  or  rather  stalking  along  in  a  very  solemn  way, 
grown  obsolete  now ;  sometimes  a  tumid  size  of  phraseology 
not  in  proportion  to  the  contents  of  it :  all  this  you  will  put- 
up  with.  For  the  phraseology,  tumid  or  not,  has  always  some- 
thing ivitJiin  if.  So  many  beautiful  styles  and  books,  with 
nothing  in  them  ;  —  a  man  is  a  ??ia/efactor  to  the  world  who 
writes  such  !  Tliey  are  the  avoidable  kind !  —  Had  Johnson 
left  nothing  but  his  Dictionary,  one  might  have  traced  there 
a  great  intellect,  a  genuine  man.  Looking  to  its  clearness  of 
definition,  its  general  solidity,  honesty,  insight,  and  success- 
ful method,  it  may  be  called  the  best  of  all  Dictionaries. 
There  is  in  it  a  kind  of  architectural  nobleness  ;  it  stands 
there  like  a  great  solid  square-built  edifice,  finished,  sym- 
metrically complete :  you  judge  that  a  true  Builder  did  it. 

One  word,  in  spite  of  our  haste,  must  be  granted  to  poor 
Bozzy.  He  passes  for  a  mean,  inflated,  gluttonous  creature ; 
and  was  so  in  many  senses.  Yet  the  fact  of  his  reverence  for 
Johnson  will  ever  remain  noteworthy.  The  foolish  conceited 
Scotch  Laird,  the  most  conceited  man  of  his  time,  approach- 
ing in  such  awestruck  attitude  the  great  dusty  irascible 
Pedagogue  in  his  mean  garret  there :  it  is  a  genuine  rever- 
ence for  Excellence ;  a  icorship  for  Heroes,  at  a  time  when 
neither  Heroes  nor  worship  were  surmised  to  exist.  Heroes, 
it  would  seem,  exist  always,  and  a  certain  worship  of  them  ! 
We  will  also  take  the  liberty  to  deny  altogether  that  of  the 
witty  Frenchman,  that  'no  man  is  a  hero  to  his  valet-de- 
chambre.'  Or  if  so,  it  is  not  the  Hero's  blame,  but  the 
Valet's :   that  his  soul,  namely,  is  a  mean  i'c(?e^soul !     He 


234  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

expects  his  Hero  to  advance  in  royal  stage-trappings,  with 
measured  step,  trains  borne  behind  him,  trumpets  sound- 
ing before  him.  It  should  stand  rather,  'No  man  can  be 
a  Grmid-Monarque  to  his  valet-de-chambre.'  Strip  your 
Louis  Quatorze  of  his  king-gear,  and  there  is  left  nothing 
but  a  poor  forked  radish  with  a  head  fantastically  carved ; 
—  admirable  to  no  valet.  The  Valet  does  not  know  a  Hero 
when  he  sees  him !  Alas,  no :  it  requires  a  kind  of  Hero 
to  do  that ;  —  and  one  of  the  world's  wants,  in  this  as  in 
other  senses,  is  for  most  part  want  of  such. 

On  the  whole,  shall  we  not  say  that  Boswell's  admiration 
was  well  bestowed ;  that  he  could  have  found  no  soul  in  all 
England  so  worthy  of  bending  down  before  ?  Shall  we  not 
say,  of  this  great  mournful  Johnson  too,  that  he  guided  his 
difficult  confused  existence  wisely ;  led  it  well,  like  a  right- 
valiant  man  ?  That  waste  chaos  of  Authorship  by  trade ; 
that  waste  chaos  of  Scepticism  in  religion  and  politics,  in 
life-theory  and  life-practice ;  in  his  poverty,  in  his  dust  and 
dimness,  with  the  sick  body  and  the  rusty  coat :  he  made  it 
do  for  him,  like  a  brave  man.  Not  wholly  without  a  load- 
star in  the  Eternal ;  he  had  still  a  loadstar,  as  the  brave  all 
need  to  have :  with  his  eye  set  on  that,  he  would  change 
his  course  for  nothing  in  these  confused  vortices  of  the 
lower  sea  of  Time.  'To  the  Spirit  of  Lies,  bearing  death 
and  hunger,  he  would  in  no  wise  strike  his  flag.'  Brave  old 
Samuel :  ultimus  Romanorum  ! 

Of  Rousseau  and  his  Heioism  I  cannot  say  so  much.  He 
is  not  what  I  call  a  strong  man.  A  morbid,  excitable,  spas- 
modic man  ;  at  best,  intense  rather  than  strong.  He  had 
not  '  the  talent  of  Silence,'  an  invaluable  talent ;  which  few 
Frenchmen,  or  indeed  men  of  any  sort  in  these  times,  excel 
in !  The  suffering  man  ought  really  '  to  consume  his  own 
smoke;'  there  is  no  good  in  emitting  smoke  till  you  have 
made  it  into  Jire,  —  which,  in  the  metaphorical   sense  too, 


Heroes  arid  Hero-ivorshlp.  235 

all  smoke  is  capable  of  becoming !  Eousseaii  has  not  depth 
or  width,  not  calm  force  for  difficulty  ;  the  first  characteris- 
tic of  true  greatness.  A  fundamental  mistake  to  call  vehe- 
mence and  rigidity  strength !  A  man  is  not  strong  who 
takes  convulsion-fits ;  though  six  men  cannot  hold  him 
then.  He  that  can  walk  under  the  heaviest  weight  without 
staggering,  he  is  the  strong  man.  We  need  forever,  espe- 
cially in  these  loud-shrieking  days,  to  remind  ourselves  of 
that.  A  man  who  cannot  hold  his  peace,  till  the  time  come 
for  speaking  and  acting,  is  no  right  man. 

Poor  Kousseau's  face  is  to  me  expressive  of  him.  A  high, 
but  narrow,  contracted,  intensity  in  it :  bony  brows ;  deep, 
strait-set  eyes,  in  which  there  is  something  bewildered-look- 
ing,  —  bewildered,  peering  with  lynx-eagerness.  A  face  full 
of  misery,  even  ignoble  misery,  and  also  of  the  antagonism 
against  that ;  something  mean,  plebeian  there,  redeemed  only 
by  intensity :  the  ,f  ace  of  what  is  called  a  Fanatic,  —  a  sadly 
contracted  Hero  !  We  name  him  here  because,  with  all  his 
drawbacks,  and  they  are  many,  he  has  the  first  and  chief 
characteristic  of  a  Hero  :  he  is  heartily  in  earnest.  In  earn- 
est, if  ever  man  was ;  as  none  of  these  French  Philosophers 
were.  Nay,  one  would  say,  of  an  earnestness  too  great  for 
his  otherwise  sensitive,  rather  feeble  nature ;  and  which 
indeed  in  the  end  drove  him  into  the  strangest  incoherences, 
almost  delirations.  There  had  come,  at  last,  to  be  a  kind 
of  madness  in  him :  his  Ideas  possessed  him  like  demons  ; 
hurried  him  so  about,  drove  him  over  steep  places  ! 

The  fault  and  misery  of  Kousseau  was  what  we  easily 
name  by  a  single  word.  Egoism;  which  is  indeed  the  source 
and  summary  of  gjl  faults  and  miseries  whatsoever.  He 
had  not  perfected  himself  into  victory  over  mere  Desire ;  a 
mean  Hunger,  in  many  sorts,  was  still  the  motive  principle 
of  him.  I  am  afraid  he  was  a  very  vain  man ;  hungry  for 
the  praises  of  men.  You  remember  Genlis's  experience  of 
him.     She  took  Jean  Jacques  to  the  Theatre  ;  he  bargain- 


236  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

ing  for  a  strict  incognito,  —  ^  He  would  not  be  seen  there 
for  the  world ! '  The  curtain  did  happen  nevertheless  to 
be  drawn  aside  :  the  pit  recognized  Jean  Jacques,  but  took 
no  great  notice  of  him  !  He  expressed  the  bitterest  indigna- 
tion ;  gloomed  all  evening,  spake  no  other  than  surly  words. 
The  glib  Countess  remained  entirely  convinced  that  his  anger 
was  not  at  being  seen,  but  at  not  being  applauded  when  seen. 
How  the  whole  nature  of  the  man  is  poisoned  ;  nothing  but 
susi)icion,  self-isolation,  fierce  moody  ways !  He  could  not 
live  with  anybody.  A  man  of  some  rank  from  the  country, 
who  visited  him  often,  and  used  to  sit  with  him,  expressing 
all  reverence  and  affection  for  him,  comes  one  day ;  finds 
Jean  Jacques  full  of  the  sourest  unintelligible  humor. 
"  Monsieur,"  said  Jean  Jacques,  with  flaming  eyes,  "  I  know 
why  you  come  here.  You  come  to  see  what  a  poor  life  I 
lead;  how  little  is  in  my  poor  pot  that  is  boiling  there. 
Well,  look  into  the  pot !  There  is  half  a  pound  of  meat,  one 
carrot,  and  three  onions ;  that  is  all :  go  and  tell  the  whole 
world  that,  if  you  like,  Monsieur ! "  —  A  man  of  this  sort 
was  far  gone.  The  whole  world  got  itself  supplied  with 
anecdotes,  for  light  laughter,  for  a  certain  theatrical  interest, 
from  these  perversions  and  contortions  of  poor  Jean  Jacques. 
Alas,  to  him  they  were  not  laughing  or  theatrical ;  too  real 
to  him  !  The  contortions  of  a  dying  gladiator :  the  crowded 
amphitheatre  looks-on  with  entertainment ;  but  the  gladiator 
is  in  agonies,  and  dying. 

And  yet  this  Rousseau,  as  we  say,  with  his  passionate  ap- 
peals to  Mothers,  with  his  Contrat-social,  with  his  celebra- 
tions of  Nature,  even  of  savage  life  in  Nature,  did  once  more 
touch  upon  Reality,  struggle  towards  Reality  ;  was  doing 
the  function  of  a  Prophet  to  his  Time.  As  he  could,  and  as 
the  Time  could!  Strangely,  through  all  that  defacement, 
degradation,  and  almost  madness,  there  is  in  the  inmost  heart 
of  poor  Rousseau  a  spark  of  real  heavenly  fire.  Once  more, 
out  of  the  element  of  that  withered  mocking  Philosophism, 


Heroes  mid  Hero-worsliip.  237 

Scepticism,  and  Persiflage,  there  has  arisen  in  this  man  the 
ineradicable  feeling  and  knowledge  that  this  Life  of  ours  is 
true;  not  a  Scepticism,  Theorem,  or  Persiflage,  but  a  Fact, 
an  awful  Reality.  Nature  had  made  that  revelation  to  him ; 
had  ordered  him  to  speak  it  out.  He  got  it  spoken  out ;  if 
not  well  and  clearly,  then  ill  and  dimly,  —  as  clearly  as  he 
could.  Nay,  what  are  all  errors  and  perversities  of  his,  even 
those  stealings  of  ribbons,  aimless  confused  miseries  and 
vagabondisms,  if  we  will  interpret  them  kindly,  but  the 
blinkard  dazzlement  and  staggerings  to-and-fro  of  a  man 
sent  on  an  errand  he  is  too  weak  for,  by  a  path  he  cannot 
yet  find  ?  Men  are  led  by  strange  ways.  One  should  have 
tolerance  for  a  ma'«,  hope  of  him  ;  leave  him  to  try  yet  what 
he  will  do.     AVhile  life  lasts,  hope  lasts  for  every  man. 

Of  E-ousseau's  literary  talents,  greatly  celebrated  still 
among  his  countrymen,  I  do  not  say  much.  His  Books,  like 
himself,  are  what  I  call  unhealthy ;  not  the  good  sort  of 
Books.  There  is  a  sensuality  in  Eousseau.  Combined  with 
such  an  intellectual  gift  as  his,  it  makes  pictures  of  a  cer- 
tain gorgeous  attractiveness  :  but  they  are  not  genuinely 
poetical.  Not  white  sunlight :  something  operatic  ;  a  kind 
of  rosepink  artificial  bedizenment.  It  is  frequent,  or  rather 
it  is  universal,  among  the  French  since  his  time.  Madame 
de  Stael  has  something  of  it;  St.  Pierre;  and  down  onwards 
to  the  present  astonishing  convulsionary  '  Literature  of  Des- 
peration,' it  is  everywhere  abundant.  That  same  rosepink  is 
not  the  right  hue.  Look  at  a  Shakspeare,  at  a  G-oethe,  even  at 
a  "Walter  Scott !  He  who  has  once  seen  into  this,  has  seen 
the  difference  of  the  True  from  the  Sham-True,  and  will 
discriminate  them  ever  afterwards. 

We  had  to  observe  in  Johnson  how  much  good  a  Prophet, 
under  all  disadvantages  and  disorganizations,  can  accomplish 
for  the  world.  In  Eousseau  we  are  called  to  look  rather  at 
the  fearfid  amount  of  evil  Avhich,  under  such  disorganiza- 
tion, may  accompany  the  good.     Historically  it  is  a  most 


238  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

pregnant  spectacle,  that  of  Rousseau.  Banished  into  Paris 
garrets,  in  the  gloomy  company  of  his  own  Thoughts  and 
Necessities  there;  driven  from  post  to  pillar;  fretted,  ex- 
asperated till  the  heart  of  him  went  mad,  he  had  grown  to 
feel  deeply  that  the  world  was  not  his  friend,  nor  the  world's 
law.  It  was  expedient,  if  anyway  x^ossible,  that  such  a 
man  should  not  have  been  set  in  flat  hostility  with  the 
world.  He  could  be  cooped  into  garrets,  laughed  at  as  a 
maniac,  left  to  starve  like  a  wild-beast  in  his  cage ;  —  but 
he  could  not  be  hindered  from  setting  the  world  on  fire. 
The  French  Revolution  found  its  Evangelist  in  Rousseau. 
His  semi-delirious  speculations  on  the  miseries  of  civilized 
life,  the  pref erability  of  the  savage  to  'the  civilized,  and 
suchlike,  helped  well  to  produce  a  whole  delirium  in  France 
generally.  True,  you  may  well  ask.  What  could  the  world, 
the  governors  of  the  Avorld,  do  with  such  a  man  ?  Difficult 
to  say  what  the  governors  of  the  world  could  do  with  him ! 
AYhat  he  could  do  with  them  is  unhappily  clear  enough,  — 
guillotine  a  great  many  of  them  !     Enough  now  of  Rousseau. 

It  was  a  curious  phenomenon,  in  the  withered,  unbeliev- 
ing, secondhand  Eighteenth  Century,  that  of  a  Hero  starting 
up,  among  the  artificial  pasteboard  figures  and  productions, 
in  the  guise  of  a  Robert  Burns.  Like  a  little  well  in  the 
rocky  desert  places,  —  like  a  sudden  splendor  of  Heaven  in 
the  artificial  Vauxhall !  People  knew  not  what  to  make  of 
it.  They  took  it  for  a  piece  of  the  Vauxhall  fire-work ;  alas, 
it  let  itself  be  so  taken,  though  struggling  half-blindly,  as 
in  bitterness  of  death,  against  that !  Perhaps  no  man  had 
such  a  false  reception  from  his  felloAV-men.  Once  more  a 
very  wasteful  life-drama  was  enacted  under  the  sun. 

The  tragedy  of  Burns' s  life  is  known  to  all  of  you. 
Surely  we  may  say,  if  discrepancy  between  place  held  and 
place  merited  constitute  perverseness  of  lot  for  a  man,  no 
lot  could  be  more   perverse   than   Burns's.     Among   those 


Heroes  and  Hero-worship.  239 

secondhand  acting-figures,  mimes  for  most  part,  of  the 
Eighteenth  Century,  once  more  a  giant  Original  Man ;  one 
of  those  men  who  reach  down  to  the  perennial  Deeps,  who 
take  rank  with  the  Heroic  among  men :  and  he  was  born  in 
a  poor  Ayrshire  hut.  The  largest  soul  of  all  the  British 
lands  came  among  us  in  the  shape  of  a  hard-handed  Scot- 
tish Peasant. 

His  Father,  a  poor  toiling  man,  tried  various  things ;  did 
not  succeed  in  any ;  was  involved  in  continual  difficulties. 
The  Steward,  Factor  as  the  Scotch  call  him,  used  to  send 
letters  and  threatenings.  Burns  says,  ^  which  threw  us  all 
into  tears.'  The  brave,  hard-toiling,  hard-suffering  Father, 
his  brave  heroine  of  a  wife ;  and  those  children,  of  whom 
Eobert  was  one!  In  this  Earth,  so  wide  otherwise,  no 
shelter  for  theui.  The  letters  '  threw  us  all  into  tears : ' 
figure  it.  The  brave  Father,  I  say  always  ;  —  a  silent  Hero 
and  Poet ;  without  whom  the  son  had  never  been  a  speaking 
one !  Burns's  Schoolmaster  came  afterwards  to  London, 
learnt  what  good  society  was ;  but  declares  that  in  no  meet- 
ing of  men  did  he  ever  enjoy  better  discourse  than  at  the 
hearth  of  this  peasant.  And  his  poor  'seven  acres  of 
nursery-ground,'  —  not  that,  nor  the  miserable  patch  of  clay- 
farm,  nor  anything  he  tried  to  get  a  living  by,  would  pros- 
per with  him ;  he  had  a  sore  unequal  battle  all  his  days. 
But  he  stood  to  it  valiantly ;  a  wise,  faithful,  unconquerable 
man;  —  swallowing-down  how  many  sore  sufferings  daily 
into  silence  ;  fighting  like  an  unseen  Hero,  —  nobody  pub- 
lishing newspaper  paragraphs  about  his  nobleness ;  voting 
pieces  of  plate  to  him  !  However,  he  was  not  lost :  notliing 
is  lost.  Kobert  is  there ;  the  outcome  of  him,  —  and  indeed 
of  many  generations  of  such  as  him. 

This  Burns  appeared  under  every  disadvantage :  unin- 
structed,  poor,  born  only  to  hard  manual  toil ;  and  writing, 
when  it  came  to  that,  in  a  rustic  special  dialect,  known  only 
to  a  small  province  of  the  country  he  lived  in.    Had  he  writ- 


240  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

ten,  even  what  he  did  write,  in  the  general  Language  of  Eng- 
land, I  doubt  not  he  had  already  become  universally  recog- 
nized as  being,  or  capable  to  be,  one  of  our  greatest  men. 
That  he  should  have  tempted  so  many  to  penetrate  through 
the  rough  husk  of  that  dialect  of  his,  is  proof  that  there  lay 
something  far  from  common  within  it.  He  has  gained  a 
certain  recognition,  and  is  continuing  to  do  so  over  all  quar- 
ters of  our  wide  Saxon  world :  wheresoever  a  Saxon  dialect  is 
spoken,  it  begins  to  be  understood,  by  personal  inspection  of 
this  and  the  other,  that  one  of  the  most  considerable  Saxon 
men  of  the  Eighteenth  Century  was  an  Ayrshire  Peasant 
named  Eobert  Burns.  Yes,  I  will  say,  here  too  was  a  piece 
of  the  right  Saxon  stuff :  strong  as  the  Harz-rock,  rooted  in 
depths  of  the  world ;  —  rock,  yet  with  wells  of  living  saltness 
in  it !  A  wild  impetuous  whirlwind  of  passion  and  faculty 
slumbered  quiet  there ;  such  heavenly  melody  dwelling  in 
the  heart  of  it.  A  noble  rough  genuineness ;  homely,  rustic, 
honest  ;  true  simplicity  of  strength ;  with  its  lightning-fire, 
with  its  soft  dewy  pity ;  —  like  the  old  Norse  Thor,  the  Peas- 
ant-god !  — 

Burns' s  Brother  Gilbert,  a  man  of  much  sense  and  worth, 
has  told  me  that  Eobert,  in  his  young  days,  in  spite  of  their 
hardship,  was  usually  the  gayest  of  speech ;  a  fellow  of  in- 
finite frolic,  laughter,  sense,  and  heart ;  far  pleasanter  to 
hear  there,  stript,  cutting  peats  in  the  bog,  or  suchlike,  than 
he  ever  afterwards  knew  him.  I  can  well  believe  it.  This 
basis  of  mirth  {^fond  gaiUard,'  as  old  Marquis  Mirabeau  calls 
it),  a  primal-element  of  sunshine  and  joyfulness,  coupled  with 
his  other  deep  and  earnest  qualities,  is  one  of  the  most  at- 
tractive characteristics  of  Burns.  A  large  fund  of  Hope 
dwells  in  him  ;  spite  of  his  tragical  history,  he  is  not  a 
mourning  man.  He  shakes  his  sorrows  gallantly  aside  ; 
bounds  forth  victorious  over  them.  It  is  as  the  lion  shak- 
ing '  dew-drops  from  his  mane ; '  as  the  swift-bounding 
horse,  that  laughs  at  the  shaking  of  the  spear.  —  But  indeed, 
Hope,  Mirth,  of  the  sort  like  Burns's,  are  they  not  the  out- 


Heroes  and  Hero-ivorship.  241 

come  properly  of  warm  generous  affection,  —  such  as  is  the 
beginning  of  all  to  every  man  ? 

You  would  think  it  strange  if  I  called  Burns  the  most 
gifted  British  soul  we  had  in  all  that  century  of  his :  and 
yet  I  believe  the  day  is  coming  when  there  will  be  little 
danger  in  saying  so.     His  writings,  all  that  he  did  under 
such  obstructions,  are  only  a  poor  fragment  of  him.     Pro- 
fessor Stewart  remarked  very  justly,  what  indeed  is  true  of 
all  Poets  good  for  much,  that  his  poetry  was  not  any  partic- 
ular faculty ;  but  the  general  result  of  a  naturally  vigorous 
original  mind  expressing  itself  in  that  way.     Burns's  gifts, 
expressed  in  conversation,  are  the  theme  of  all  that  ever 
heard  him.     All  kinds  of  gifts :  from  the  gracefulest  utter- 
ances of  courtesy,  to  the  highest  fire  of  passionate  speech ; 
loud   floods   of   mirth,   soft   wailings    of   affection,   laconic 
emphasis,  clear  piercing  insight;    all  was  in  him.     Witty 
duchesses  celebrate  him  as  a  man  whose  speech  '  led  them 
off  their  feet.'     This  is  beautiful :  but  still  more  beautiful 
that  which  Mr.  Lockhart  has  recorded,  which  I  have  more 
than  once  alluded  to.  How  the  waiters  and  ostlers  at  inns 
would  get  out  of  bed,  and  come  crowding  to  hear  this  man 
speak  !     Waiters  and  ostlers :  —  they  too  were  men,  and  here 
was  a  man  !     I  have  heard  much  about  his  speech ;  but  one 
of  the  best  things  I  ever  heard  of  it  was,  last  year,  from  a 
venerable  gentleman  long  familiar  with  him :   That  it  was 
speech  distinguished  by  always  having  something  in  it.     "  He 
spoke  rather  little  than  much,"  this  old  man  told  me ;  "  sat 
rather  silent  in  those  early  days,  as  in  the  company  of  per- 
sons above  him ;   and  always  when  he  did  speak,  it  was  to 
throw  new  light  on  the  matter."     I  know  not  why  any  one 
should  ever  speak  otherwise !  —  But  if  we  look  at  his  gen- 
eral  force   of   soul,  his   healthy  robustness   everyway,   the 
rugged  downrightness,  penetration,  generous  valor  and  man- 
fulness  that  was  in  him,— where  shall  we  readily  find  a 
better-gifted  man  ? 


242  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

Among  the  great  men  of  the  Eighteenth  Century,  I  some- 
times feel  as  if  Burns  might  be  found  to  resemble  Mirabeau 
more  than  any  other.  They  diif er  widely  in  vesture ;  yet 
look  at  them  intrinsically.  There  is  the  same  burly  thick- 
necked  strength  of  body  as  of  soul ;  —  built,  in  both  cases, 
on  what  the  old  Marquis  calls  Sifond  gaillard.  By  nature, 
by  course  of  breeding,  indeed  by  nation,  Mirabeau  has  much 
more  of  bluster ;  a  noisy,  forward,  unresting  man.  But  the 
characteristic  of  Mirabeau  too  is  veracity  and  sense,  power 
of  true  insight,  superiority  of  vision.  The  thing  that  he  says 
is  worth  remembering.  It  is  a  flash  of  insight  into  some 
object  or  other :  so  do  both  these  men  speak.  The  same 
raging  passions ;  capable  too  in  both  of  manifesting  them- 
selves as  the  tenderest  noble  affections.  Wit,  wild  laugh- 
ter, energy,  directness,  sincerity :  these  were  in  both.-  The 
types  of  the  two  men  are  not  dissimilar.  Burns  too  could 
have  governed,  debated  in  National  Assemblies ;  politicized, 
as  few  could.  Alas,  the  courage  which  had  to  exhibit  itself 
in  capture  of  smuggling  schooners  in  the  Solway  Frith ;  in 
keeping  silence  over  so  much,  where  no  good  speech,  but 
only  inarticulate  rage  was  possible :  this  might  have  bel- 
lowed forth  Ushers  de  Breze  and  the  like ;  and  made  itself 
visible  to  all  men,  in  managing  of  kingdoms,  in  ruling  of 
great  ever-memorable  epochs  !  But  they  said  to  him  reprov- 
ingly, his  Official  Superiors  said,  and  wrote :  '  You  are  to 
work,  not  think.'  Of  your  thinking-iaGiiltj,  the  greatest  in 
this  land,  we  have  no  need ;  you  are  to  gauge  beer  there ; 
for  that  only  are  you  wanted.  Very  notable;  —  and  worth 
mentioning,  though  we  know  what  is  to  be  said  and  an- 
swered !  As  if  Thought,  Power  of  Thinking,  were  not,  at 
all  times,  in  all  places  and  situations  of  the  world,  precisely 
the  thing  that  was  wanted.  The  fatal  man,  is  he  not  always 
the  w>ithinking  man,  the  man  who  cannot  think  and  see  ;  but 
only  grope,  and  hallucinate,  and  missee  the  nature  of  the 
thing  he  works  with  ?      He  missees  it,  mis-takes  it  as  we 


Heroes  and  Hero-worship.  243 


say ;  takes^  it  for  one  thing,  and  it  is  another  thing,  —  and 
leaves  him  standing  like  a  Futility  there  !  He  is  the  fatal 
man ;  unutterably  fatal,  put  in  the  high  places  of  men.  — 
"  Why  complain  of  this  ?  "  say  some  :  "  Strength  is  mourn- 
fully denied  its  arena ;  that  was  true  from  of  old."  Doubt- 
less ;  and  the  worse  for  the  arena,  answer  I !  Complaining 
profits  little ;  stating  of  the  truth  may  profit.  That  a  Eu- 
rope, with  its  French  Ee volution  just  breaking  out,  finds  no 
need  of  a  Burns  except  for  gauging  beer,  —  is  a  thing  I,  for 
one,  cannot  rejoice  at !  — 

Once  more  we  have  to  say  here,  that  the  chief  quality  of 
Burns  is  the  sincerity  of  him.  So  in  his  Poetry,  so  in  his 
Life.  The  Song  he  sings  is  not  of  fantasticalities ;  it  is  of 
a  thing  felt,  really  there ;  the  prime  merit  of  this,  as  of  all 
in  him,  and  of  his  Life  generally,  is  truth.  The  Life  of 
Burns  is  what  we  may  call  a  great  tragic  sincerity.  A  sort 
of  savage  sincerity, —  not  cruel,  far  from  that;  but  wild, 
wrestling  naked  with  the  truth  of  things.  In  that  sense, 
there  is  something  of  the  savage  in  all  great  men. 

Hero-worship, —  Odin,  Burns?  Well;  these  Men  of  Let- 
ters too  were  not  without  a  kind  of  Hero-worship:  but 
what  a  strange  condition  has  that  got  into  now!  The 
waiters  and  ostlers  of  Scotch  inns,  prying  about  the  door, 
eager  to  catch  any  word  that  fell  from  Burns,  were  doing 
unconscious  reverence  to  the  Heroic.  Johnson  had  his 
Boswell  for  worshiper.  Eousseau  had  worshipers  enough; 
princes  calling  on  him  in  his  mean  garret;  the  great,  the 
beautiful,  doing  reverence  to  the  poor  moonstruck  man. 
For  himself  a  most  portentous  contradiction;  the  two  ends 
of  his  life  not  to  be  brought  into  harmony.  He  sits  at  the 
tables  of  grandees;  and  has  to  copy  music  for  his  own 
living.  He  cannot  even  get  his  music  copied.  "  By  dint 
of  dining  out,"  says  he,  "I  run  the  risk  of  dying  by  starva- 
tion at  home."  For  his  worshipers  too  a  most  questionable 
thing!     If  doing  Hero-worship  well  or  badly  be  the  test  of 


244  Selections  from   Carlyle, 

vital  wellbeing  or  illbeing  to  a  generation,  can  we  say  that 
these  generations  are  very  first-rate? — ^And  yet  our  heroic 
Men  of  Letters  do  teach,  govern,  are  kings,  priests,  or 
what  you  like  to  call  them;  intrinsically  there  is  no  pre- 
venting it  by  any  means  whatever.  The  world  has  to  obey 
him  who  thinks  and  sees  in  the  world.  The  world  can 
alter  the  manner  of  that ;  can  either  have  it  as  blessed  con- 
tinuous summer  sunshine,  or  as  unblessed  black  thunder 
and  tornado,  —  with  unspeakable  difference  of  profit  for  the 
world !  The  manner  of  it  is  very  alterable ;  the  matter  and 
fact  of  it  is  not  alterable  by  any  power  under  the  sky. 
Light;  or,  failing  that,  lightning:  the  world  can  take  its 
choice.  Not  whether  we  call  an  Odin  god,  prophet,  priest, 
or  what  we  call  him ;  but  whether  we  believe  the  word  he 
tells  us :  there  it  all  lies.  If  it  be  a  true  word,  we  shall 
have  to  believe  it;  believing  it,  we  shall  have  to  do  it. 
What  name  or  welcome  we  give  him  or  it,  is  a  point  that 
concerns  ourselves  mainly.  It,  the  new  Truth,  new  deeper 
revealing  of  the  Secret  of  this  Universe,  is  verily  of  the 
nature  of  a  message  from  on  high ;  and  must  and  will  have 
itself  obeyed. — 

My  last  remark  is  on  that  notablest  phasis  of  Burns's 
history,  —  his  visit  to  Edinburgh.  Often  it  seems  to  me  as 
if  his  demeanor  there  were  the  highest  proof  he  gave  of 
what  a  fund  of  worth  and  genuine  manhood  was  in  him.  If 
we  think  of  it,  few  heavier  burdens  could  be  laid  on  the 
strength  of  a  man.  So  sudden ;  all  common  Lionism,  which 
ruins  innumerable  men,  was  as  nothing  to  this.  It  is  as  if 
Napoleon  had  been  made  a  King  of,  not  gradually,  but  at 
once  from  the  Artillery  Lieutenancy  in  the  Regiment  La 
Fere.  Burns,  still  only  in  his  twenty-seventh  year,  is  no 
longer  even  a  plowman;  he  is  flying  to  the  West  Indies 
to  escape  disgrace  and  a  jail.  This  month  he  is  a  ruined 
peasant,  liis  wages  seven  pounds  a  year,  and  these  gone 
from    him:    next   month   he   is   in   the   blaze   of  rank  and 


Heroes  and  Hero-worship.  245 

beauty,  handing  down  jeweled  Duchesses  to  dinner;  the 
cynosure  of  all  eyes !  Adversity  is  sometimes  hard  upon  a 
man ;  but  for  one  man  who  can  stand  prosperity,  there  are 
a  hundred  that  will  stand  adversity.  I  admire  much  the 
way  in  which  Burns  met  all  this.  Perhaps  no  man  one 
could  point  out  was  ever  so  sorely  tried,  and  so  little  forgot 
himself.  Tranquil,  unastonished;  not  abashed,  not  inflated, 
neither  awkwardness  nor  affectation :  he  feels  that  Jie  there 
is  the  man  Eobert  Burns;  that  the  'rank  is  but  the  guinea- 
stamp;'  that  the  celebrity  is  but  the  candle-light  which 
will  show  ichat  man,  not  in  the  least  make  him  a  better  or 
other  man!  Alas,  it  may  readily,  unless  he  look  to  it, 
make  him  a  luorse  man;  a  wretched  inflated  wnlndbag, — 
inflated  till  he  burst,  and  become  a  dead  lion;  for  whom,  as 
some  one  has  said,  'there  is  no  resurrection  of  the  body;' 
worse  than  a  living  dog !  —  Burns  is  admirable  here. 

And  yet,  alas,  as  I  have  observed  elsewhere,  these  Lion- 
hunters  were  the  ruin  and  death  of  Burns.  It  was  they 
that  rendered  it  impossible  for  him  to  live !  They  gathered 
round  him  in  his  Farm;  hindered  his  industry;  no  place 
was  remote  enough  from  them.  He  could  not  get  his  Lion- 
ism  forgotten,  honestly  as  he  was  disposed  to  do  so.  He 
falls  into  discontents,  into  miseries,  faults;  the  world  get- 
ting ever  more  desolate  for  him;  health,  character,  peace 
of  mind  all  gone;  —  solitary  enough  now.  It  is  tragical  to 
think  of!  These  men  came  but  to  see  him;  it  was  out  of 
no  sympathy  with  him,  nor  no  hatred  to  him.  They  came 
to  get  a  little  amusement:  they  got  their  amusement;  — 
and  the  Hero's  life  Avent  for  it! 

Kichter  says,  in  the  Island  of  Sumatra  there  is  a  kind  of 
'Light-chafers,'  large  Fire-flies,  which  people  stick  upon 
spits,  and  illuminate  the  ways  with  at  night.  Persons 
of  condition  can  thus  travel  with  a  pleasant  radiance, 
which  they  much  admire.  Great  honor  to  the  Fire-flies! 
But  —  !   .   .   . 


NOTES. 


BUKisrs. 

Edinburgh  Review,  No.  96.  —  The  Life  of  Robert  Burns.  By  J.  G, 
Lockhart,  LL.B.    Edinburgh,  1828. 

'Lockhart  has  written  a  kind  of  "  Life  of  Burns,"  '  wrote  Carlyle  to 
his  brother  in  1828,  '  and  men  in  general  are  making  another  uproar 
about  Burns.  It  is  this  book,  a  trivial  one  enough,  which  I  am  to 
pretend  reviewing.' 

The  famous  Edinburgh  quarterly,  professing  by  its  title  to  deal 
mainly  in  book-reviewing,  could  never  have  been  the  power  it  was 
if  it  had  held  itself  strictly  to  so  narrow  a  field.  That  the  rela- 
tion of  much  of  its  best  work  to  contemporary  literature  was  merely 
nominal  is  shown  not  only  by  this  paper  but  by  many  of  Macaulay's 
best  biographical  and  historical  essays,  notably  Hilton,  Addison,  and 
Lo7'd  Clive.  Jeffrey,  at  that  time  editor  of  the  Keview,  was  of  an  easy 
and  cultivated  talent,  but,  like  Macaulay,  he  was  too  much  a  man  of 
the  world,  and  too  little  a  seer,  to  relish  unconventionality  in  any  sort. 
He  owned,  indeed,  in  his  relationship  and  attachment  to  Mrs.  Carlyle, 
a  special  motive  for  encouraging  her  husband,  and  had  admitted  to 
his  columns,  in  1827,  the  essays  on  Bichter  and  German  Literature. 
These  papers,  as  Carlyle  said  long  after,  '  excited  a  considerable 
though  questionable  sensation  in  Edinburgh;'  but  mainly  on  the 
score  of  their  subject  and  general  mode  of  treatment,  for  the  young 
author  had  not  yet  freed  himself  wholly  from  the  conventional  manner 
of  the  reviewer  of  that  day.  When,  however,  Jeffrey  came  to  examine 
the  manuscript  of  the  Burns  essay,  he  found  it  so  different  in  method 
and  style  from  anything  he  or  his  friends  could  or  would  have  written 
under  the  circumstances  that  he  declined  to  accept  it  without  modifica- 
tion. Pie  talked  about  its  diffuseness,  its  unevenness  of  diction  ;  stip- 
ulated that  it  be  abridged  one-half ;  and  before  sending  the  manuscript 

247 


248  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

to  the  printer  made  many  '  corrections,'  and  even  insertions,  with  a 
view  to  mitigating  the  '  verbosity  and  exaggeration '  which  he 
deplored.  Carlyle  received  the  proof-sheets,  and  saw  '  the  tirst  part 
cut  all  into  shreds  —  the  body  of  a  quadruped  with  the  head  of  a  bird  ; 
a  man  shortened  by  catting  out  the  thighs  and  fixing  the  knee-caps  on 
his  hips.'  He  wrote  at  once  to  Jeffrey,  refusing  to  let  his  work  appear 
in  any  such  mangled  form.  The  portions  which  had  been  cut  out  were 
replaced,  and  the  essay  now  stands,  we  suppose,  approximately  as  it 
was  first  written.  Not  more  than  approximately,  it  is  clear  ;  the  first 
part,  in  particular,  still  shows  signs  of  those  '  editorial  blotches '  in  the 
interest  of  conventional  propriety,  which  Carlyle  years  later  plain- 
tively named  to  Emerson  as  characteristic  of  the  Edinburgh  Eeview 
in  Jeffrey's  time. 

'It  is  one  of  the  very  best  of  his  essays,'  says  Froude,  'and  was 
composed  with  an  evidently  peculiar  interest,  because  the  outward 
circumstances  of  Burns's  life,  his  origin,  his  early  surroundings,  his 
situation  as  a  man  of  genius  born  in  a  farmhouse  not  many  miles 
distant,  among  the  same  people  and  the  same  associations  as  were  so 
familiar  to  himself,  could  not  fail  to  make  him  think  often  of  himself 
while  he  was  writing  about  his  countryman.' 

P.  1.  like  Butler.  The  fact  that  Hudihras  was  one  of  Carlyle's 
favorite  books,  in  his  early  days,  accounts  for  the  double  reference 
to  its  author  in  the  limits  of  a  single  essay  (see  p.  55).  To  most 
modern  readers  one  of  the  dullest,  though  certainly  in  its  pro- 
duction the  most  timely,  of  satires,  Hudihras  won  great  applause 
from  the  fickle  Charles  and  his  court ;  yet  Butler  was  suffered  to 
die  in  wretched  obscurity,  while  his  "work  was  still  in  everybody's 
mouth.  —  An  interesting  early  office  of  his  was  the  stewardship  of 
Ludlow  Castle,  which  he  held  just  after  the  Restoration,  when  the 
neighborhood  must  have  been  still  fruitful  in  memories  of  the 
presentation  of  Milton's  Comus. 

brave  Mausoleum.  Cf.  the  French  hrave.  Here  the  adjective 
is  strongly  ironical.  This  tomb,  which  stands  in  the  Dumfries 
churchyard,  is  an  unfortunate  monstrosity,  wdth  a  tin  dome  which 
literally  '  shines  over  his  dust.' 

sixth  narrative.  The  sketches  of  Currie,  "Walker,  Cromek, 
Heron,  and  Peterkin,  are  perhaps  those  which  Carlyle  had  in 
mind,  though  there  were  other  biographies — most  of  them  on  a 
small  scale — which  preceded  Lockhart's. 


Buryis.  249 

P.  2.  No  man  ...  is  a  hero  to  his  valet.  This  saying  has 
been  traced  not  only  to  several  French  sources,  but  even,  in  a 
modified  form,  to  Plutarch.  Here  Carlyle  gives  it  the  turn  of  '  A 
prophet  hath  no  honor  in  his  own  country.' 

Sir  Thomas  Lucy  .  ,  .  John  a  Combe.  The  legend  connect- 
ing these  names  with  Shakespeare's  are  impeached  by  DeQuincey 
in  his  elaborate  essay  on  Shakespeare.  See  Dowden's  Introduction 
to  Shakespeare,  p.  12. 

The  Gentlemen  of  the  Caledonian  Hunt,  according  to  Lock- 
hart,  were  '  an  association  of  the  most  distinguished  members  of 
the  northern  aristocracy.'  To  them  Burns  dedicated  the  first 
Edinburgh  edition  of  his  poems. 

Ayr  Writers.  AValter  Scott's  father  was  a  'writer  to  the  sig- 
net.'    See  Webster's  International  Dictionary,  under  signet. 

New  and  Old  Light  Clergy.  The  progressive  'New  Lights,' 
with  whom  Burns  became  identified,  were  in  open  rebellion 
against  the  '  Old  Lights/  the  conservative  element  in  the  Scottish 
Church,  whom  Burns  attacked  in  The  Twa  Herds,  Holy  Willie's 
Prayer,  The  Holy  Fair  (note  on  p.  18),  etc.  For  a  more  gracious 
picture,  see  Barrie's  Auld  Licht  Idylls  and  Window  in  Thrutns. 

P.  4.  Mr.  Morris  Birkbeck.  Author  of  Notes  on  a  Journey  in 
America  (1818). 

backwoods  of  America.  This  from  Carlyle  means  simply 
America.  He  repeatedly  speaks  to  Emerson  of  a  possible  visit  to 
Concord  as  a  journey  to  'the  Western  Woods.' 

Our  notions  upon  this  subject  may  perhaps  appear  ex- 
travagant.—  P.  5.  Our  own  contributions  .  .  .  scanty  and 
feeble.  These  and  other  moderate,  even  apologetic  phrases,  as 
well  as  the  numerous  repetitions  of  'as  we  believe,'  'we  think,' 
etc.,  which  occur  in  the  first  part  of  this  essay,  are  evidently  the 
remnants  of  Jeffrey's  '  editing.'  Certainly  there  is  nothing  of  the 
sort  to  be  found  in  Carlyle's  later  work. 

P.  5.  Especially  as  there  was  now  nothing  to  be  done.  Do 
not  be  too  ready  to  read  in  this  a  cynical  fling  at  humanity.  Wait 
at  least  until  you  are  familiar  with  the  story  of  Burns's  life. 

P.  6.  Ferguson  or  Ramsay.  Allan  Ramsay  (1685-1758)  and 
Robert  Ferguson  (1750-1774)  were  clever  and  popular  writers  of 
Scottish  verse,  but  not  men  of  real  genius.  For  practical  evidence 
of  Burns's  reverence  for  Ferguson,  see  Lockhart's  Life,  Chap.  V. 


250  Selections  fro77i   Carlyle, 

darksome  drudging  childhood^  Burns  says  that  his  early  life 
combined  '  the  cheerless  gloom  of  a  hermit  with  the  miceasing  moil 
of  a  galley-slave.' 

Alas,  his  sun  shone  as  through  a  tropical  tornado,  etc. 
Here  follows  one  of  those  almost  lyric  bursts  which  now  and 
then  surprise  ns  in  what  Carlyle  calls  his  'crabbed  sardonic 
vein.' 

P.  7.  advised  to  -write  a  tragedy.  Burns  himself  had  seri- 
ous thoughts  of  turning  to  dramatic  work.  See  Lockhart's  Life, 
pp.  211,  317. 

'amid  the  melancholy  main.'  Quoted  from  Thomson's  Castle 
of  Indolence,  stanza  oO. 

'  Eternal  Melodies.'  The  influence  of  Carlyle's  German  studies 
is  evident  not  only  in  his  syntax,  but  in  the  familiar  use  of  words 
and  phrases  translated  or  imitated  from  the  German.  In  a  let- 
ter to  Emerson  (1837)  occurs  the  following  passage :  '  I  rejoice 
much  in  the  glad  serenity  with  which  you  look  out  on  this  won- 
drous Dwelling-place  of  yours  and  mine,  —  with  an  ear  for  the 
Ewlgen  Melodien,  which  pipe  in  the  winds  around  us,  and  utter 
themselves  forth  in  all  sounds  and  sights  and  things :  not  to  be 
written-down  by  gamut-machinery.' 

P.  8.  cranreuch,  hoar  frost.  Read  the  poems  To  a  Mountain 
Daisy  and  To  a  Mouse.  (In  these  notes,  only  such  Scotch  words 
are  done  into  English  as  are  not  to  be  found,  for  instance,  in 
Webstei^'s  International  Dictionary.) 

'  it  raises  his  thoughts,'  etc.  Burns  says  something  like  this 
in  his  Journal  (1781).  There  is  no  poem  which  is  likely  to 
appeal  more  strongly  to  the  imagination  of  any  poet,  Old  Light  or 
New,  than  the  noble  lOIth  Psalm,  from  which  Burns  quotes. 

P.  9.  for  defence,  not  for  offence.  This  sort  of  pride,  which 
Carlyle  again  praises  in  Johnson,  was  one  of  his  own  marked 
characteristics.  In  1824,  when  he  was  still  without  profession  or 
favorable  prospect,  he  wrote  :  '  If  it  were  but  a  crust  of  bread  and  a 
cup  of  water  that  Heaven  has  given  thee,  rejoice  that  thou  hast 
none  but  Heaven  to  thank  for  it.  A  man  that  is  not  standing  on 
his  own  feet  soon  ceases  to  be  a  man  at  all.' 

P.  10.  'a  soul  like  an  Aeolian  harp.'  A  favorite  figure  of 
speech  with  Carlyle's  oft-quoted  '  Jean  Paul.'  For  a  similar  use, 
see  Carlyle's  first  essay  on  Richter,  p.  20. 


Burns.  261 


P.  11.    Horace's  rule. 


Si  vis  me  Jlere,  dolendum  est 
Primum  ipsi  tihi.  —  Ars  Poetica^  102. 

Freely  rendered :  '  If  you  would  have  me  in  tears,  first  must  you 
yourself  know  sorrow.' 

P.  13.  the  only  thing  approaching  to  a  sincere  w^ork.  For 
a  different  estimate  read  Matthew  Arnold's  essay  on  Byron.  You 
will  note  that  his  final  judgment  is  founded  upon  the  following 
proposition,  quoted  from  Swinburne :  'The  power  of  Byron's  per- 
sonality lies  in  the  "  splendid  and  imperishable  excellence  which 
covers  all  his  offences,  and  outweighs  aU  his  defects ;  the  excellence 
of  sincerity  and  strength." ' 

to  read  its  o-wn  consciousness,  etc.  You  will  need  to  keep 
this  passage  in  mind  in  reading  (p.  36)  that  Burns  '  never  attains 
to  any  clearness  regarding  himself;  and  to  decide  which  of  these 
opinions  is  more  consistent  with  the  final  comparison  of  Burns  and 
Byron,  at  the  close  of  the  essay. 

P.  14.  letters  to  Mrs.  Dunlop  are  uniformly  excellent. 
Even  in  Carlyle's  youth  the  fashion  of  British  letter-writing  was 
formal.  Only  in  writing  to  men  of  his  own  station  has  Burns  the 
excellence  of  unconscious  ease.  See  Lockhart's  Life  for  numerous 
extracts  from  letters  of  Burns  to  Mrs.  Dunlop.  He  himself  said  of 
his  English  :  '  I  liave  not  that  command  of  the  language  that  I  have 
of  my  native  tongue ;  in  fact,  I  think  my  ideas  are  more  barren  in 
English  than  in  Scottish.' 

rose-colored  Novels  and  iron-mailed  Epics.  At  this  time 
Scott  and  Cooper  were  at  the  height  of  their  fame ;  Byron  was  not 
long  dead,  and  Southey,  in  his  poetry  still  more  remote  from 
the  representation  of  real  life,  had  been  for  fifteen  years  poet- 
laureate. 

P.  16.  Or  are  men  suddenly  grown  wise,  etc.  Johnson 
records  the  fact  that  neither  Swift  nor  Pope  ever  succumbed  to 
laughter.  Lord  Chesterfield  wrote  to  his  son  :  '  How  low  and  un- 
becoming a  thing  laughter  is  !  I  am  sure  that  since  I  have  had  the 
full  use  of  my  reason  nobody  has  ever  heard  me  laugh.'  Johnson 
himself,  like  Carlyle,  '  laughed  all  over,'  and  used  to  say  that  '  the 
size  of  a  man's  understanding  might  always  be  measured  by  his 
mirth.' 


252  Selections  from   Oarlyle. 

The  Minerva  Press  was  largely  responsible  for  the  flood  of 
maudlin  sensationalism  that  debauched  the  taste  of  the  English 
novel-reader  during  the  last  quarter  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

P.  17.    Mossgiel  and  Tarbolton.     See  any  Life  of  Burns. 

Crockford's.     See  the  Century  Cyclopedia  of  Names. 

Such  cobweb  speculations.  Shall  we  include  in  this  classi- 
fication Macaulay's  doctrine  that  '  as  civilization  advances,  poetry 
almost  necessarily  declines'?  Does  he  provide,  in  his  discussion, 
for  the  occasional  success  of  such  a  prodigy  as  Burns  ?  See  the  first 
part  of  Macaulay's  essay  on  Milton. 

P.  18.  Council  of  Trent.  The  last  great  general  council  of  the 
Roman  Church.  It  was  held  at  Trent,  in  the  Tyrol,  shortly  before 
Luther's  death,  and,  with  a  very  different  object  in  view,  brought 
about  a  final  separation  between  the  Protestants  and  the  Papacy. 

The  Holy  Fair  describes  a  mock  conference  of  the  Old  Lights, 
to  which  the  poet  goes  by  invitation  of  the  merry  maid  Fun,  who 
promises  him — and  the  promise  is  kept — much  amusement  at 
the  expense  of  the  hags  Superstition  and  Hypocrisy. 

P.  19.  Note  that  here  he  calls  clearness  of  sight  'the  root 
and  foundation  of  every  sort  of  talent,'  while  in  another  passage 
(p.  13)  he  has  said  that  sincerity  of  expression  is  '  the  root  of  most 
other  virtues.'  See  if  you  find  any  tenet  of  Carlyle's  in  The  Hero 
as  Poet  which  reconciles  these  apparently  incongruous  statements. 

Pp.  19-20.  bock'd,  gushed;  snaw-broo,  slushy  snow;  speat, 
torrent;  gumlie  jaups,  muddy  jets. 

P.  20.    Smithy  of  the  Cyclops.     See  Odyssey,  Bk.  IX. 

Yoking  of  Priam's  Chariot.     See  Iliad,  Bk.  XXIV. 

P.  21.  'red-wat-shod.'  Xote  how  much  of  the  force  of  this 
tremendous  word  is  lost  by  the  expansion  necessary  to  the  expres- 
sion of  the  same  thought  in  full.      Wat  is  simply  '  wet,' 

too  frightfully  accurate  for  Art!  This  is  exactly  the  criti- 
cism winch  rises  in  the  ordinary  mind  on  the  first  reading  of 
many  of  Carlyle's  descrij)tions  in  Sartor  Resartus  and  The  French 
Revolution. 

P.  22.  might  have  .  .  .  indited  a  Novum  Organum.  Oddly 
enough,  the  modern  attempt  has  been  to  prove  the  converse  :  that 
the  author  of  the  Novum  Organum  has  '  shown  an  understanding  ' 
which  might  have,  or  rather  must  have,  produced  the  plays  called 
Shakespeare's. 


Burns.  253 

in  the  passage  above  quoted.  Do  you  find  anything  about 
the  '  doctrine  of  association  '  in  the  passage  ah-eady  quoted  ? 

Pp.  24-25.  ourie,  cowering ;  deep-lairing,  deep-wading ; 
sprattle,  scramble ;    stake,  chance. 

P.  25.  Dr.  Slop  .  .  .  Uncle  Toby.  Characters  in  Sterne's 
Tristram   Shamhj. 

'Indignation  makes  verses.'  Juvenal's  Facit  indignatio  ver- 
sus. 

he  loved  a  good  hater.  Johnson  said  of  a  friend,  long  dead: 
'Dear  Bathurst  was  a  man  to  my  very  heart's  content:  he  hated  a 
fool,  and  he  hated  a  rogue,  and  he  hated  a  Whig ;  he  was  a  very 
good  hater.' 

P.  26.  Furies  of  Aeschylus.  In  the  tragedy  called  The  Eumen- 
ides,  the  Furies  act  as  chorus. 

darkness  visible.     See  Paradise  Lost,  Bk.  I.  62. 

Dweller  in  yon  Dungeon  dark.  Do  the  quoted  verses  im- 
press you  as  being  of  extraordinary  power  ? 

P.  27.  at  Thebes,  and  in  Pelops'  line.  See  II  Penseroso,  99. 
What  Greek  tragedies  had  to  do  with  the  line  of  Pelops  ? 

P.  28.  '  To  the  last,  Burns  was  of  opinion  that  Tam  o'  Shanter 
was  the  best  of  his  j)i'oductions ;  and  although  it  does  not  often 
happen  that  poet  and  public  come  to  the  same  conclusion  on  such 
points,  I  believe  the  decision  in  question  has  been  all  but  unani- 
mously approved  of.'     Lockhart,  Chap.  VII. 

Tieck  .  .  .  Musaus.  Both  of  these  satirists  are  represented  in 
Carlyle's  early  translations  from  the  German.  Of  Musaus  he  says  : 
'  He  does  not  approach  the  first  rank  of  WTiters;  he  attempts  not  to 
deal  with  the  deeper  feelings  of  the  heart.  .  .  .  Musaus  is  in  fact 
no  poet  ...  he  is  nothing,  or  very  little  of  a  maker.'  On  the  con- 
trary, '  Tieck  is  no  ordinary  man ;  he  is  a  true  poet,  a  poet  born  as 
well  as  made.' 

P.  29.    raucle  carlin,  sturdy  crone. 

Teniers.  David  Teniers,  the  younger.  For  a  critical  sketch 
and  an  example  of  his  work,  see  the  Century  Magazine,  Sept.,  1895. 

P.  30.  Beggars'  Opera  .  .  .  Beggars'  Bush.  See  the  Century 
Cyclopedia  of  Xames. 

Ossorius,  the  Portugal  Bishop.  Geronymo  Osorio,  once  affect- 
edly called  the  '  Cicero  of  Portugal.'  It  was  Bacon  who  said  that 
'his  vein  was  weak  and  waterish.' 


254  Selections  from    Carlyle. 

P.  31.  his  Songs  .  .  .  are  music.  See  the  discussion  of  Song 
in  The  Hero  as  Poet.  Burns's  old  schoolmaster  says:  'Robert's 
ear  was  remarkably  dull,  and  his  voice  untunable.  It  was  long 
before  I  could  get  him  to  distinguish  one  tune  from  another.' 
Does  this  affect  the  value  of  Carlyle's  remark  ?  Review  what  has 
been  said  of  Burns's  poems  (p.  28). 

P.  32.  our  Fletcher.  Andrew  Fletcher  of  Saltoun  (1653-1716). 
Here,  as  in  the  phrase  'our  literature'  (p.  34),  Carlyle  speaks  as  a 
Scotchman.  Later  in  life,  when  he  had  made  London  his  home, 
he  ceased  to  identify  himself  with  Scotland,  and  even  made  use  of 
the  phrase  'we  English.' 

P.  33.  John  Boston.  This  should  be  Thomas  Boston.  See 
Chambers's  Ci/clopcedia  of  English  Literature. 

Lord  Karnes.  His  Elements  of  Criticism  was  much  praised,  but 
Goldsmith  said  of  it,  'It  is  easier  to  write  that  kind  of  book  than 
to  read  it.' 

Hume.  See  the  concluding  portion  of  the  Carlyle  essay  on  Bos- 
ivelVs  .Johnson. 

Robertson,  Smith.  William  Robertson,  the  historian ;  Adam 
Smith,  the  political  economist. 

P.  35.  'a  tide  of  Scottish  prejudice.'  It  was  the  boyish 
reading  of  a  history  of  Sir  William  Wallace  which,  Burns  says, 
'poured  a  tide,'  etc. 

A  wish  (I  mind  its  power),  etc.  See  Burns's  EpisUe  to  the 
Guidicife  of  Wauchope  House. 

P.  36.  he  never  attains  to  any  clearness  regarding  himself. 
There  is  no  more  touching  comment  upon  Burns's  limitations  than 
the  following  complacent  passage  from  the  Autohiography :  'It  was 
ever  my  opinion  that  the  mistakes  and  blunders  of  which  we  see 
thousands  guilty,  are  owing  to  their  ignorance  of  themselves.  To 
know  myself  has  been  all  along  my  study.' 

P.  38.  Comparison  has  been  made  between  the  hard-handed 
peasant  here  described,  and  Carlyle's  own  father.  The  senior 
Burns  in  this  description  lacks  the  characteristic  of  stern  restraint 
which  made  it  possible  for  Carlyle  to  say  of  his  father,  '  We  had 
all  to  complain  that  we  durst  not  freely  love  him.'  Burns,  how- 
ever, ascribes  to  his  father  a  trait  which  was  equally  distant  from 
the  character  of  James  Carlyle :  that  of  '  headlong  ungovernable 
irascibility.' 


Burns.  255 

P.  39.    a  priest-like  father.     See  The  Cottar's  Saturday  Night. 

The  gayest,  brightest,  most  fantastic,  fascinating  being. 
Murdoch,  the  schoolmaster,  whose  authority  Carlyle  cites  later, 
says,  '  Robert's  countenance  was  generally  grave,  and  expressive 
of  a  serious,  contemplative,  and  thoughtful  mind.'  'At  those^ 
years,'  said  Burns,  of  the  same  period,  'I  was  by  no  means  a 
favorite  with  anybody.'  For  further  particulars,  which  put  Car- 
lyle's  impression  of  the  poet's  boyhood  somewhat  in  doubt,  see 
Lockhart's  Life,  Chap.  I. 

P.  40.  sharp  adamant  of  Fate.  Adamant,  chaos,  welter,  hulls, 
hearsays,  furtherances,  formulas,  are  among  the  words  which  you 
will  find  Carlyle  using  to  the  point  of  mannerism. 

P.  41.  'passions  raging  like  demons.'  'My  passions,  once 
lighted  up,  raged  like  so  many  devils,  till  they  found  vent  in 
rhyme ;  and  then  the  conning  over  my  verses  like  a  spell  soothed 
all  to  quiet,'  are  Burns's  words. 

P.  42.   'hungry  Ruin  has  him  in  the  wind.' 

'  I  took  a  steerage  passage  in  the  first  ship  that  was  to  sail  from  the 
Clyde  ;  for  "  Hungry  Rum  had  me  in  the  wind."  I  had  been  for  some 
days  skulking  from  covert  to  covert,  under  all  the  terrors  of  a  jail.  I 
had  taken  the  last  farewell  of  my  few  friends  ;  my  chest  was  on  the 
way  to  Greenock  ;  I  had  composed  the  last  song  I  ever  should  measure 
in  Caledonia,  "  The  gloomy  night  is  gathering  fast,"  when  a  letter  from 
Dr.  Blacklock  to  a  friend  of  mine  overthrew  all  my  schemes,  by  open- 
ing new  prospects  to  my  poetic  ambition.'  —  Burns's  Autohiography. 

The  original  reading  of  the  last  verse  Carlyle  quotes  is,  '  Fare- 
well, the  bonnie  banks  of  Ayr.'     Which  is  the  better  version  ? 

P.  43.  societies  which  they  would  have  scorned.  'It  was 
little  in  Burns's  character,'  says  Lockhart,  '  to  submit  to  nice  and 
scrupulous  rules,  when  he  knew  that  by  crossing  the  street  he  could 
find  society  who  would  applaud  him  the  more,  the  more  heroically 
all  such  rules  were  disregarded.' 

Virgilium  vidi  tantum.  Freely,  'I  have  at  least  a  glimpse  of 
Virgil  to  boast  of.'     Ovitb  Tristia,  IV.  10,  51. 

P.  44.  Langhorne.  See  Chambers's  Cyclopcedia  of  English 
Literature.  The  second  verse  quoted  reads  in  the  original,  '  Per- 
haps that  parent  mourned  her  soldier  slain.'  Is  Scott's  variation 
an  improvement  ? 


256  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

P.  46.  Of  the  good  old  Blaoklook,  Johnson  wrote  to  Mrs. 
Thrale,  '  This  morning  I  saw  at  breakfast  Dr.  Blacklock  the  blind 
poet,  who  does  not  remember  to  have  seen  light,  and  is  read 
to  by  a  poor  scholar,  in  Latin,  French,  and  Greek.  He  was 
originally  a  poor  scholar  himself.  I  looked  upon  him  with 
reverence.' 

modica  of  pudding  and  praise.  Contrast  this  with  the  pas- 
sage quoted  (p.  43)  to  the  effect  that  Burns  did  not  'rank  with 
those  professional  ministers  of  excitement,'  etc.  Lockhart  else- 
where gives  an  incident  which  illustrates  the  poet's  independence: 
*  A  certain  stately  peeress  sent  to  invite  him,  without,  as  he  fancied, 
having  sufficiently  cultivated  his  acquaintance  beforehand.  "  Mr. 
Burns,"  answered  the  bard,  "  will  do  himself  the  honor  of  waiting 

on  the of ,  provided  her  ladyship  will  invite  also  the 

Learned  Pig."  Such  an  animal  was  then  exhibiting  in  the  Grass- 
market.' 

P.  47.  Be  sure  you  understand  exciseman  and  ganger  as  they 
are  applied  to  Burns.  —  There  is  no  doubt  that  on  the  whole  he 
was  faithful  in  the  discharge  of  his  duties,  but  here  is  an  anec- 
dote told  by  a  Professor  Gillespie,  which  indicates  that  occasionally 
the  poet  in  Burns  got  the  better  of  the  exciseman.  '  An  informa- 
tion had  been  lodged  against  a  poor  widow  of  the  name  of  Kate 
Watson,  who  had  ventured  to  serve  a  few  of  her  old  country  friends 
with  a  draught  of  unlicensed  ale,  and  a  lacing  of  whiskey.  I  saw 
him  [Burns]  enter  her  door,  and  anticipated  nothing  short  of  an  im- 
mediate seizure.  A  nod,  accompanied  by  a  significant  movement 
of  the  forefinger,  brought  Kate  to  the  doorway,  and  I  was  near 
enough  to  hear  the  following  words :  "  Kate,  are  ye  mad  ?  D'ye 
no  ken  that  the  supervisor  and  I  will  be  in  upon  you  in  the  course 
of  forty  minutes  ?     Guid  bye  t'ye  at  present."  ' 

P.  48.  To  his  last  day,  he  owed  no  man  anything.  Not 
long  before  his  death,  Burns  wrote  the  following  desperate  lines  to 
his  cousin ;  on  the  same  day  sending  a  similar  appeal,  in  almost  the 
same  words,  to  a  friend,  Mr.  Thomson :  'A  rascal  of  a  haberdasher, 
to  whom  I  owe  a  considerable  bill,  taking  il  into  his  head  that  I  am 
dying,  has  "commenced  a  process  against  me,  and  will  infallibly  put 
my  emaciated  body  into  jail.  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  accommo- 
date me,  and  that  by  return  of  post,  with  ten  pounds  ?  —  Save  me 
from  the  horrors  of  a  jail!' 


Burns.  257 

P.  49.  Maecenases.  The  name  of  Horace's  protector  is  used  by 
Carlyle,  as  well  as  by  Macaulay,  interchangeably  with  '  patron.' 

These  men  .  .  .  the  means  of  his  ruin.  See  the  conclusion 
of  The  Hero  as  Man  of  Letters. 

P.  50.  These  accusations  .  .  .  were  false  enough.  The  fact 
that  on  one  occasion  Burns  sent  to  the  French  Convention  a  num- 
ber of  small  cannon  which  in  his  official  capacity  he  had  captured 
from  a  smuggling  vessel,  made  such  charges  from  headquarters  not 
unnatural.  Burns's  sympathy  with  the  French,  however,  seems 
to  have  been  far  less  deep-seated  than  his  feeling  for  America. 
'  According  to  the  tradition  of  the  neighborhood.  Burns  gave  great 
offence  by  demurring,  in  a  large  mixed  company,  to  the  toast,  "  The 
health  of  William  Pitt " ;  and  left  the  room  in  indignation  because 
the  society  rejected  what  he  wished  to  substitute,  namely,  "The 
health  of  a  greater  and  better  man,  George  Washington." '  See 
Lockhart's  Life,  Chap.  VII.  Read  also  Burns's  unfinished  ballad 
on  The  American  War. 

P.  51.  'entertained  him  very  agreeably  —  with  a  bowl  of 
his  usual  potation,'  says  Lockhart. 

P.  52.  The  '  high-mindedness  of  refusing  them '  was  rated  at 
its  full  worth  by  Burns  himself,  in  a  bornbastic  letter  to  his  editor, 
which  offers  a  fair  example  of  his  English  prose  at  its  worst :  '  I 
swear  by  that  honor  which  crowns  the  upright  statue  of  Robert 
Burns's  integrity,  on  the  least  motion  of  it  [payment]  I  wiU  indig- 
nantly spurn  the  by-past  transaction  [the  unfortunate  editor  had 
sent  him  a  draft  for  £5],  and  from  that  moment  commence  to  be 
an  entire  stranger  to  you.  Burns's  character  for  generosity  of  sen- 
timent and  independence  of  mind  will,  I  trust,  long  outlive  any  of 
his  wants  which  the  cold,  unfeeling  ore  can  supply ;  at  least  I  will 
take  care  that  such  a  character  he  shall  deserve.' 

P.  53.  So  the  milder  third  gate  was  opened.  Do  the  facts 
of  Burns's  death  entirely  justify  the  pathos  of  this  passage? 

P.  54.  that  sentiment  of  Pride,  which  we  inculcate,  etc. 
See  note  on  p.  9. 

P.  56.  let  us  go  and  do  otherwise.  Here  the  preacher- 
element  in  Carlyle  takes  the  lead,  in  exhortation. 

fardels  of  a  weary  life.     See  Hamlet,  Act  HI.,  Sc.  1. 

P.  57.  The  sternest  sum-total.  Contrast  with  this  the  former 
characterization  of  death  as  '  the  milder  third  gate.' 


258  Selections  from   Carhjle. 

P.  58.  Restaurateur.  Carlyle  wrote  in  his  Note  Booh  (Dec.  3, 
1826)  :  '  It  is  a  damnable  heresy  in  criticism,  to  maintain  either  ex- 
pressly or  implicitly  that  the  ultimate  object  of  poetry  is  sensation. 
That  of  cookery  is  such,  but  not  that  of  poetry.  Sir  Walter  Scott 
is  the  great  intellectual  restaurateur  of  Europe.  What  are  his 
novels  —  any  one  of  them?  Are  we  wiser,  better,  holier,  stronger? 
No.     AVe  have  been  amused.' 

P.  59.   the  Araucana.     See  the  Century  Cyclopedia  of  Names. 

P.  61.  Jean  Paul.  Literary  name  of  Johann  Paul  Friedrich 
Richter,  the  German  mj^stic  and  humorist  (1763-1825). 

P.  62.  the  highest  worldly  honors,  etc.  Contrast  with  this 
Taine's  account  of  Byron's  antecedents.    Eng.  Lit.,  Bk.  IV.,  Chap.  ii. 

P.  61.    Ramsgate.     A  seaport  in  Kent,  England. 

Isle  of  Dogs.     A  small  peninsula  on  the  Thames. 

P.  65.  Valclusa  Fountain.  The  fountain  of  the  village  of 
Vaucluse,  near  Avignon,  was  celebrated  by  Petrarch,  under  the 
Latin  form  here  given. 


0^  HISTOEY. 

Fraser's  Magazine,  No.  10.    1830. 

Fraser^s  was  a  monthly  publication  of  a  somewhat  miscellaneous 
nature,  which  Carlyle,  with  that  deadly  playfulness  of  his,  variously 
dubbed  the  '  dog's-meat  tart  of  a  magazine,'  the  'dog's  carrion  cart,' 
and  finally,  the  '  mud  magazine.'  For  its  proprietor,  the  well-meaning 
Eraser,  he  expressed  a  similar  contempt,  retaining  him  for  some  time 
as  his  publisher,  however,  on  the  ground  that  the  known  evil  is  better 
than  the  unknown. 

This  essay  is  included  here  because,  although  it  cannot  be  rated 
equal  in  merit  to  the  rest  of  the  material  in  the  present  volume  of 
selections,  it  has  the  advantage  of  embodying  one  of  the  author's  most 
important  doctrines  in  its  least  extravagant  form.  '  His  conception  of 
what  history  should  be  is  shared  with  Macaulay,'  says  Nichol  (Mac- 
aulay's  essay  on  the  same  subject  had  been  published  in  1828) .  '  Both 
writers  protest  against  its  being  made  a  mere  record  of  "court  and 
camp,"of  royal  intrigue  and  state  rivalry,  of  pageants  .  .  .  orchivalric 
encounters.  .  .  .  But  Carlyle  differs  from  Macaulay  in  his  passion  for 
the  concrete.  The  latter  presents  us  with  pictures  to  illustrate  his 
political  theory  ;  the  former  leaves  his  pictures  to  speak  for  themselves.' 

P.  66.  The  Sibylline  Books.  See  Brewer's  Reader's  Hand- 
hook,  or  Gay  ley's  Classic  Myths. 

P.  67.  '  Of  the  romantic  historians,  Herodotus  is  the  earliest  and 
the  best.'     Macaulay  on  History. 

P.  68.  Philosophy  teaching  by  Experience.  Carlyle  grew 
more  and  more  impatient  of  this  theory  of  history,  as  of  other 
theories.  In  the  essay  on  Biography,  written  two  years  later,  he 
says : 

'  What  hope  have  we  in  turning  over  those  old  interminable  Chron- 
icles, with  their  garrulities  and  their  insipidities;  or  still  worse,  in 
patiently  examining  those  modern  narrations  of  the  philosophic  kind, 
where  "Philosophy  teaching  by  Experience"  has  to  sit  like  owl  on 

259 


260  Selections  from    Carlyle. 

housetop,  seeing  nothing,  understanding  nothing,  uttering  only,  with 
such  solemnity,  her  perpetual  most  wearisome  hoo-hoo  :  — what  hope 
have  we,  except  the  for  the  most  part  fallacious  one,  of  gaining  some 
acquaintance  with  our  fellow-creatures,  though  dead  and  vanished, 
yet  dear  to  us ;  how  they  got  along  in  those  old  days,  suffering  and 
doing;  to  what  extent,  and  under  what  circumstances,  they  resisted 
the  Devil  and  triumphed  over  him,  or  struck  their  colors  to  him,  and 
were  trodden  under  foot  by  him ;  how,  in  short,  the  perennial  Battle 
went  which  men  name  Life,  which  we  also  in  these  new  days,  with 
indifferent  fortune,  have  to  fight,  and  must  bequeath  our  sons  and 
grandsons  to  go  on  fighting,  —  till  the  Enemy  one  day  be  quite  van- 
quished and  abolished,  or  else  the  great  Night  sink  and  part  the  com- 
batants ;  and  thus,  either  by  some  Millenium  or  some  new  Noah's 
Deluge,  the  Volume  of  Universal  History  wind  itself  up !  Other  hope, 
in  studying  such  books,  we  have  none  :  and  that  it  is  a  deceitful  hope, 
who  that  has  tried  knows  not  ?  ' 

P.  69.  Neither  -will  it  adequately  avail,  etc.  Contrast  the 
conclusion  of  this  sentence  with  the  former  phrase  {Burns,  p.  15), 
'the  heart  of  man,  which  is  the  same  after  thirty  centuries.' 

"Which  was  the  greatest  innovator,  etc.  The  argument  here 
follows  Macaulaj^  very  closely  : 

'  The  circumstances  which  have  most  influence  on  the  happiness  of 
mankind,  the  changes  of  manners  and  morals,  the  transition  of  com- 
munities from  poverty  to  wealth,  from  knowledge  to  ignorance,  from 
ferocity  to  humanity,  —  these  are,  for  the  most  part,  noiseless  revolu- 
tions. They  are  not  achieved  by  armies,  nor  enacted  by  senates.'  — 
Macaulay  on  History. 

P.  70.  Morgarten.  A  mountain  in  Switzerland,  from  which, 
in  1315,  a  small  body  of  Swiss  descended  upon  and  utterly  routed 
a  superior  force  of  Austrians.  See  the  Centuj^y  Cyclopedia  of 
Names.  One  of  Carlyle's  early  attempts  at  verse  had  for  its 
theme  this  battle.     Here  is  the  last  stanza : 

'  In  speed  they  came  on,  but  still  faster  they  go, 

While  ruin  and  horror  around  them  are  hurled. 

And  the  field  of  Morgarten  in  splendor  shall  grow, 

Like  Marathon's  field,  to  the  end  of  the  world.' 

P.  71.  '  Impeachment  of  Strafford.'  See  Green's  Short  His- 
tory of  the  English  People,  pp.  521-526. 


On   History.  261 

'  Convocation  of  the  Notables.'  See  Caiiyle's  French  Revo- 
lution, Bk.  III.,  Chap.  iii. 

P.  72.  the  -writer  fitted  to  compose  History  ...  an  un- 
known man.     Macaulay  had  written  : 

'History,  it  has  been  said,  is  philosophy  teaching  by  examples. 
Unfortunately,  what  the  philosophy  gains  in  soundness  and  depth,  the 
examples  generally  lose  in  vividness.  A  perfect  historian  must  possess 
an  imagination  sufficiently  powerful  to  make  his  narrative  affecting 
and  picturesque.  Yet  he  must  control  it  so  absolutely  as  to  content 
himself  with  the  material  which  he  finds,  and  to  refrain  from  supply- 
ing deficiencies  by  additions  of  his  own.  He  must  be  a  profound  and 
ingenious  reasoner.  Yet  he  must  possess  sufficient  self-command  to 
abstain  from  casting  his  facts  in  the  mould  of  his  hypothesis.  Those 
who  can  justly  estimate  these  almost  insuperable  difficulties  will  not 
think  it  strange  that  every  writer  should  have  failed,  either  in  the 
narrative  or  in  the  speculative  department  of  history.' 

Boswell  gives  the  following  formulation  by  Johnson  of  the  old- 
fashioned  notion  of  the  sphere  of  the  historian  : 

'"Great  abilities,"  said  he,  "are  not  requisite  for  a  historian  ;  for  in 
historical  composition,  all  the  greatest  powers  of  the  human  mind  are 
quiescent.  He  has  facts  ready  to  his  hand  ;  so  there  is  no  exercise  of 
invention.     Imagination  is  not  required  in  any  high  degree."  ' 

P.  76.    the    inward    and    spiritual    is    of    prime    influence. 

See  note  on  p.  159  of  this  volume. 

P.  77.  Bruckers  and  Buhles.  Brucker  and  Buhle  were  Ger- 
man philosophers  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Enfield,  an  English 
dissenting  minister  of  the  same  period,  was  the  translator  of 
Brucker's  History  of  Philosophy. 

P.  78.   let  us  not  despair.      Compare  Macaulay: 

'  A  historian  such  as  we  have  been  attempting  to  describe,  would 
indeed  be  an  intellectual  prodigy.  In  his  mind  powers  scarcely  com- 
patible with  each  other  must  be  tempered  into  an  exquisite  harmony. 
We  shall  sooner  see  another  Shakespeare  or  another  Homer.  .  .  .  Yet 
the  contemplation  of  imaginary  models  is  not  an  unpleasant  or  useless 
employment  of  the  mind.  It  cannot  indeed  produce  perfection  ;  but  it 
produces  improvement.' 


BOSWELL'S   LIFE   OF  JOHNSOK 

Fraser's  INIagazine,  Xo.  2S.— The  Life  of  Samuel  Johnson,  LL.D.; 
including  a  Tour  to  the  Hebrides.  By  James  Boswell,  Esq.  —  A  new  Edi- 
tion, with  numerous  Additions  and  Notes,  by  John  Wilson  Croker,  LL.D., 
F.R.S.    5  vols.     London,  1831. 

Macaulay's  review,  hastily  written  under  the  spur  of  political  and 
personal  hostility  to  Croker,  so  far  lacked  the  dignity  of  mature  and 
dispassionate  criticism  as  to  render  a  more  considerate  treatment  of  so 
notable  a  publication  not  only  possible,  but  imperative.  Carlyle,  to 
be  sure,  brought  to  the  task  as  much  prejudice  as  Macaulay,  but  it 
was  the  prejudice  of  enthusiasm,  rather  than  of  party  rancor.  Macau- 
lay's  avowed  intention  of  '  smashing '  Croker  was  too  evident  in  the  in- 
discriminate abuse  and  trivial  accusations  of  inaccuracy  which  make 
up  so  large  a  part  of  his  essay  ;  while  his  paradoxical  judgment  of 
Boswell,  and  his  patrician  inability  to  grasp  such  a  character  as  John- 
son's, plainly  aroused  all  Carlyle's  instinct  for  fair  play. 

In  the  compact  opening  paragraphs  of  his  essay,  which  constitute 
all  that  can  properly  be  called  a  review,  Carlyle  begins  and  concludes 
an  arraignment  of  Croker's  editorial  method,  on  large  grounds,  which 
is  as  much  more  searching  in  its  calm  contempt,  as  it  is  less  personal, 
than  Macaulay's  petulant  sallies.  The  rest  of  the  paper  is  devoted 
particularly  to  the  defence,  and  more  broadly  to  the  clarification  of 
the  true  Boswell  and  the  true  Johnson,  While  there  is  no  direct  refer- 
ence to  Macaulay  or  his  review,  the  connection  between  the  two  essays 
is  obvious. 

Here  again,  as  in  the  case  of  Burns,  Carlyle  was  to  speak  of  a  great 
man  with  whom  he  had  much  in  common.  His  relation  to  Burns, 
however,  was  almost  purely  that  of  nationality  and  outward  circum- 
stance ;  his  sympathy  with  Johnson  rested  upon  a  much  more  essen- 
tial likeness.  'In  rugged  kindliness  and  intellectual  massiveness,  in 
physical  tribulations  and  the  circumstances  of  their  struggle  with  the 
world,  the  two  were  so  close  a  parallel  that  Carlyle's  power  of  sympa- 
thetic discernment  was  probably  never  less  taxed  than  by  this  noble 

202 


BosivelVs   Life    of  Johnson.  263 

portrait.'  The  essay  in  consequence  was  written  with  a  rapidity  very 
far  from  his  usual  experience,  and  has  a  value  from  its  spontaneous 
ease  of  manner  which  is  lacking  in  much  of  his  more  deliberate  work. 

P.  80.  National  Omnibus.  A  third-rate  popular  magazine 
then  published. 

throats  of  brass  and  of  leather.  Brazen  trumpets  are  figured 
as  voicing  the  '  vituperative '  criticisms ;  bellows  of  leather,  the 
'  puffery '  of  the  '  laudatory  '  reviews. 

lo-paeans.     From  the  Greek  'Iw  Ilaiav,  '  Hail,  Apollo  ! ' 

P.  82.  reconciling  the  distant  -with  the  present.  That  is, 
reconciling  inconsistent  or  conflicting  statements,  of  which  there 
are  as  many  in  Johnson  as  in  Carlyle. 

Shovel-hatted.  Tliis  to  Carlyle  sometimes  means  conservative 
in  religious  belief,  sometimes  merely  goody-goody.  Consult  the 
dictionary  for  the  history  of  the  shovel  hat. 

P.  83.  "  Ma  f  oi,  monsieur,"  etc.  '  Really,  sir,  our  happiness 
depends  on  the  way  in  which  our  blood  circulates.' 

English-French.  The  objection  is  Croker's,  and  seems  a  trifle 
hypercritical. 

P.  84.    Pudding  and  Praise.     See  Pope's  Dunciad,  I.  54. 

P.  85.  The  four  Books  on  Johnson  w^ere  Tyer's  Biographical 
Sketch;  Mrs.  Piozzi's  Anecdotes;  Sir  John  Hawkins's  Z?/e,  and 
Murphy's  Essay.  Many  of  Croker's  insertions,  however,  are  trace- 
able to  still  other  sources. 

a  sextum  quid.     '  A  sixth  something-or-other.' 

P.  86.   penny-s-wipes.     Small  beer. 

P.  88.  appeared  at  the  Shakspeare  Jubilee.  It  is  true  that 
Boswell  was  proud  of  his  experiences  in  Corsica,  and  his  acquaint- 
ance w4th  Paoli.  The  absurdity  of  this  tale,  however,  for  which 
in  its  present  form  Macaulay  is  responsible,  is  a  good  deal  modified 
by  a  knowledge  of  the  facts.  It  w'as  at  a  public  masquerade  held 
in  connection  wdth  the  Shakespeare  Jubilee  at  Stratford,  that  Bos- 
well appeared  not  inappropriately  dressed  as  an  armed  Corsican 
chief ;  moreover,  the  inscription  on  his  cap  was  not  Corsica  Bos- 
well, but  '  Viva  la  Liberta.' 

The  very  look  of  Boswell.  Carlyle  probably  had  in  mind 
here  a  ludicrous  portrait  which  forms  the  frontispiece  of  the  fourth 
volume  of  Croker's  Boswell. 


264  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

old  Touchwood  (or,  as  later,  *  sulphur-brand')  Auchinleck 
(pronounced  Affleck)  was  Boswell's  father,  the  Lau'd  of  Auchin- 
leck, here  given  the  title  of  the  family  estate. 

P.  89.  a  very  Gamaliel.  See^cfev.  34.  The  Boswells  claimed 
descent  from  the  Bruce,  and  kinship  with  English  royalty. 

P.  90.  Thurtell's  Trial.  For  an  account  of  this  famous  mur- 
der, see  Masson's  edition  of  De  Quincey,  Vol.  XIII.,  pp.  44-45,  note. 
After  quoting  the  same  dialogue  from  the  trial,  Masson  says,  'the 
"  gig  "  became  from  that  moment  Carlyle 's  pet  symbol  for  respec- 
tability ;  and  the  world  was  never  to  hear  the  last  of  it  from  him, 
whether  in  the  simple  form  of  the  mere  "  gig,"  or  in  the  generalized 
forms  of  "  gigmanity,"  "gigmanity  disgigged,"  and  other  compounds.' 

P.  91.  a  poor  rusty-coated  '  scholar.'  This  is  unfortunately  a 
mistake.  In  1763,  when  Johnson  first  became  known  to  Boswell, 
it  has  been  noted,  he  '  was  already  the  leader  of  the  literary  world, 
had  an  income  larger  than  Boswell's  allowance,  and  numbered 
among  his  friends  men  of  the  highest  rank.' 

to  sip  muddy  coffee,  etc.  Carlyle  has  made  too  much  of  this 
story.  Boswell  mentions  tea  as  their  beverage,  but  says  nothing 
about  the  quality.  Miss  Williams,  he  adds  in  a  note,  was  known 
to  have  '  acquired  such  niceness  of  touch  as  to  know  by  the  feeling 
on  the  outside  of  the  cup  how  near  it  was  to  being  full.' 

P.  92.  domestic  'Outer-House.'  Why  'domestic'?  The 
Outer  House  is  the  great  hall  in  the  Scottish  Parliament  House  at 
Edinburgh.  For  a  description  of  it  by  Carlyle  as  it  appeared  in 
his  youth,  see  Froude's  Life  of  Carlyle,  Vol.  I.,  pp.  23-24.  —  Henry 
Erskine  afterwards  became  a  patron  of  Burns.  '  The  most 
agreeable  of  companions  and  the  most  benignant  of  wits  took  him 
[Burns]  under  his  wing,'  says  Lockhart. 

P.  94.  a  kind  of  Heroic  Poem.  This  comparison  between 
his  book  and  the  Odyssey  was  first  made  by  Boswell  in  his  Adver- 
tisement to  the  Second  Edition  : 

'It  seems  to  me,  in  my  moments  of  self-complacency,  that  this  ex- 
tensive biographical  work,  however  inferior  in  its  nature,  may  in  one 
respect  be  assimilated  to  tlie  Odyssey.  Amidst  a  thousand  entertain- 
ing and  instructive  episodes,  the  Hero  is  never  long  out  of  sight ;  for 
they  are  all  in  some  degree  connected  with  him ;  and  He  in  the  whole 
course  of  the  History  is  exhibited  by  the  Author  for  the  best  advantage 
of  the  readers.' 


BosiuelVs    Life    of  Johnson.  265 

P.  95.  'the  waste  fantasy  of  his  own  dream.'  Carlyle  else- 
where ascribes  this  phrase  to  the  German  'Xovalis.' 

a  strange  enough  hypothesis.  See  Macaulay  on  BosicelVs 
Johnson. 

Bad  is  by  its  nature  negative.  '  Quackery  gives  birth  to 
nothing;  gives  death  to  all  things.'      The  Hero  as  Diviniti/. 

P.  97.  ^on  the  import  of  Reality.'  See  the  short  essay  on 
Biography,  which  was  published  in  the  preceding  number  of 
Eraser's  by  way  of  introduction  to  the  Johnson  essay.  The  specu- 
lation referred  to  is  there  quoted  from  one  of  Carlyle's  fictitious 
authorities,  the  '  Herr  Sauerteig '  mentioned  below. 

'transcendental.'  A  much-abused  word  which,  as  applied  to 
thought,  signifies  that  element  in  human  reason  which  we  possess 
through  insight  rather  than  through  experience. 

P.  98.  The  Mitre  Tavern  still  stands,  etc.  This  is  an  exag- 
gerated instance  of  Carlyle's  fondness  for  compound  forms.  The 
bootjack  here  is  the  English  inn-official  usually  known  —  at  least 
in  fiction  —  as  the  '  Boots.' 

P.  99.    Prosperous  air- vision.     See  The  Tempest,  Act  lY.,  Sc.  1. 

P.  100.  '  the  thing  they  called  the  Rudder,'  etc.  Where  does 
this  passage  occur  originally  ? 

P.  101.  Mr.  Senior  and  Mr.  Sadler.  Writers  on  political 
economy,  who  had  just  come  freshly  before  the  public. 

^neas  Silvius.  Pope  Pius  11.  (1405-1464),  who  as  a  young 
man  visited  Scotland,  and  wrote  certain  letters,  mainly  descriptive, 
which  are  said  to  be  still  worth  reading. 

P.  103.  which  we  here  recommend ;  that  is,  recommend  to 
the  reader's  consideration.  This  adverse  criticism  of  Boswell 
comes  also  from  Macaulay.  Apart  from  the  general  moral  aspect 
of  the  question,  Boswell  had  the  excuse  of  Johnson's  full  permis- 
sion and  encouragement  to  record  everything.  The  same  charges 
of  'infringement  of  social  privacy'  were  brought  against  Carlyle's 
own  biographer,  who  could  and  did  plead  the  same  justification. 

'taking  notes.' 

'  If  there's  a  hole  in  a'  your  coats, 

I  rede  ye  tent  it ; 
A  chiePs  amang  ye  takin'  notes, 
An'  faith  he'll  prent  it.' 

—  Burns,  Lines  on  Captain  Grose. 


266  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

P.  104.    Halfness.     Evidently  from  the  German  Halhheit. 

(thou  hast  it  a-holding.)  That  is,  'thou  hast  the  power  to 
hold  it.' 

Silence.  Carlyle  by  his  insistent  vehemence  on  this  point 
fairly  challenged  the  gibe  which  he  himself  quotes  as  coming  from 
his  friend  Sterling  :  '  "  Silence  ?  "  he  would  say  :  "  Yes,  truly,  if 
they  give  you  leave  to  proclaim  it  by  cannon-salvos !  " '  Life  of 
Sterling,  p.  169. 

P.  105.  ass-skin  and  blacklead  =  parchment  and  crayon  = 
paper  and  pencil. 

'  iron  leaf.'  '  In  Heaven's  chancery  also  there  goes  on  a  record- 
ing ;  things,  as  my  Moslem  friends  say,  are  "  written  on  the  iron 
leaf."  '     Past  and  Present,  Bk.  III.,  Chap.  x. 

'  much-enduring.'    The  Homeric  epithet  of  Odysseus,  TroXurAas. 

the  Life  of  the  lowest  mortal,  etc.  This  quotation  is  from 
himself ;  the  one  whicli  follows,  he  elsewhere  attributes  to  Johnson. 

P.  106.  Natus  sum,  etc.  'I  was  born;  I  hungered,  I  sought 
(food)  ;  now,  being  filled,  I  take  my  rest.' 

P.  109.  Popinjays  or  .  .  .  Mumbojumbos.  Look  up  these 
words.  See,  also,  for  a  description  of  the  popinjay,  Scott's  Old 
Mortality,  Chaps.  I.  and  II. 

P.  111.  '  never  once  saw  the  human  face  divine.'  These  are 
reported  to  be  Johnson's  own  words. 

P.  112.  k  chacun  selon  sa  capacity,  etc.  'To  each  according 
to  his  capacity,  to  each  capacity  according  to  its  works.'  The 
new  French  Prophets  who  formulated  this  maxim  were  the 
Saint-Simonians,  in  whom  at  one  time  Carlyle  was  greatly 
interested. 

Mr.  Hector.  Edmund  Hector  was  in  later  life  the  friend  and 
host  of  Johnson,  who  often  spoke  of  him  with  affection. 

P.  113.  The  child  is  father  of  the  man.  See  Wordsworth's 
lines  beginning,  '  JNIy  heart  leaps  up.' 

Corporal  Trim's  '  auxiliary  verbs.'  It  is  not  Corporal  Trim, 
but  Shandy's  father,  w^io  proposes  a  system  of  varying  the  simple 
verb  by  means  of  auxiliaries,  for  the  purpose  of  questioning. 
Using  this  method  of  inquiry,  he  says,  '  there  is  no  one  idea  can 
enter  a  child's  brain,  how  barren  soever,  but  a  magazine  of  con- 
ceptions and  conclusions  may  be  brought  forth  from  it.'  Sterne's 
Tristram  Shandy. 


BosweIVs   Life    of  Johnson.  267 

P.  114.    the  continual  view  of  the  empty  or  locked  buttery. 

It  is  hard  to  see  why  Caiiyle  should  dispute  a  matter  of  simple 
record.  Boswell's  best  editor  says  that  beyond  a  doubt  all  the 
students,  rich  and  poor,  dined  at  the  common  table. 

P.  115.  Johnson,  as  a  regular  college  exercise,  translated  into 
Latin  Pope's  Messiah,  and  won  from  its  author  the  extraordinary 
tribute :  '  The  writer  of  this  poem  will  leave  it  a  question  for  pos- 
terity whether  his  or  mine  be  the  original.' 

P.  116.  'Mr.  Edmund  Cave.'  The  Christian  name  should  be 
Edward. 

'  This  is  the  most  sensible  man,'  etc.  These  are  reported  to 
have  been  Mrs.  Johnson's  actual  words  on  first  meeting  him. 

P.  117.  Dr.  Parr.  A  noted  classical  scholar  and  pedant  of 
Johnson's  time. 

gart,  made  ;  lith,  joint. 

Town-clerk  (not  of  Ephesus).     See  Acts  xix.  35. 

P.  118.  Otway  was  an  Elizabethan  playwright  who  died,  if  not 
directly  of  hunger,  at  least  of  the  results  of  hunger.  He  is  said  to 
have  been  choked  by  a  piece  of  bread. 

Scrogginses.  See  the  portrait  of  Scroggin  in  Goldsmith's  frag- 
mentary Description  of  an  Author's  Bedchamber. 

carpe  diem.  '  Seize  the  day.'  See  Horace,  Odes,  I.  xi.  8.  Com- 
pare many  of  the  seventeenth  century  lyi-ics,  for  instance  Herrick's 

'  Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may, 

Old  time  is  still  a-flying  ; 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day 
To-morrow  will  be  dying.' 

P.  120.    'lord  of  the  liou  heart,'  etc. 

'  Thy  spirit,  Independence,  let  me  share  ; 

Lord  of  the  lion-heart  and  eagle -eye 
Thy  steps  I  follow  with  my  bosom  bare, 

Nor  heed  the  storm  that  howls  along  the  sky.' 

—  Smollett,  Ode  to  Independence. 

P.  121.  Bookseller  Maecenasship.  'Andrew  Millar/  said 
Johnson  of  his  favorite  bookseller,  '  is  the  Maecenas  of  tlie  age.' 

P.  122.  Meecenases  proper  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  virtual.  That  is, 
the  aristocracy  and  the  booksellers. 


268  Selections  froyn   Carlyle, 

an  Osborne  even  required  to  be  knocked  down.     '  It  has 

been  confidently  related,  with  many  embellishments/  says  Boswell, 
'  that  Johnson  one  day  knocked  Osborne  down,  in  his  shop,  with  a 
folio,  and  put  his  foot  upon  his  neck.  The  simple  truth  I  had  from 
Johnson  himself.    "  Sir,  he  was  impertinent  to  me,  and  I  beat  him."  ' 

P.  123.  The  plan  of  the  Dictionary  had  been  addressed  to  Lord 
Chesterfield  as  patron,  but  beyond  the  gift  of  ten  pounds  at  that 
time,  Johnson  had  received  no  sign  from  him  till  shortly  before  its 
publication,  when  with  a  view  to  attracting  the  dedication  to  him- 
self, the  earl  took  pains  to  write  a  favorable  notice.  This  tardy 
act  of  favor,  instead  of  propitiating  Johnson,  called  forth  the  letter 
of  which  Carlyle  quotes  the  conclusion. 

Love  ...  a  native  of  the  rocks.  See  Virgil,  Eclogues,  YIII. 
43-45. 

delayed  .  ,  .  till  I  am  solitary.  Mrs.  Johnson  had  died  three 
years  before,  in  1752. 

certain  foolish  soot-stains  dropped  here  as  '  Notes.'  Croker 
considered  the  gift  of  ten  pounds  an  '  act  of  assistance,'  and  was 
puzzled  to  reconcile  the  fact  with  Johnson's  statement.  As  has 
been  said,  the  gift  was  made  before  the  actual  work  began,  and 
only  served  to  make  subsequent  neglect  more  marked. 

P.  124.  great  bushy  wig.  'Mr.  Carlyle  writes  of  "bushy- 
wigged  Cave  " ;  but  it  was  Johnson  whose  wig  is  described,  not 
Cave.  On  p.  327  Hawkins  again  mentions  his  "  great  bushy  wig." ' 
G.  B.  Hill. 

(viroKpiTTis-)  Carlyle,  in  using  the  Greek  word  for  '  actor,'  evi- 
dently means  to  suggest  the  anglicized  form  of  the  word,  'hypo- 
crite.' 

'  What  is  Truth,'  said  jesting  Pilate.  See  Bacon's  essay,  Of 
Truth,  the  introductory  paragraph. 

P.  125.  John  Toland,  a  deist  of  the  early  eighteenth  century, 
attacked  the  authenticity  of  the  gospels. 

P.  126.  Parson  Trulliber  is  a  brutal  farming  clergyman  in 
Fielding's  Joseph  Andrews. 

'  like  an  infant  Hercules,'  etc.  This  simile  is  adapted  from  a 
remark  of  Boswell's  about  Johnson. 

P.  127.  Lord  Jeffreys,  Chief  Justice  under  Charles  H.,  num- 
bered among  his  crimes  the  judicial  murder  of  Lord  Russell  and 
Algernon  Sidney,  for  alleged  complicity  in  the  '  Rye-house  Plot.' 


BosivelVs    Life    of  Johnson.  269 

P.  129.  Wilkes.  The  most  effective  condensed  comment  on 
the  great  demagogue  is  to  be  found  in  Hogarth's  satiric  portrait. 

P.  130.  both  '  person  '  and  '  character.'  That  is,  both  bodily 
well-being  and  good-repute. 

Fleetditch.     Once  a  natural  stream  in  London,  now  a  sewer. 

P.  131.  Notice  the  Bible  phrases  in  tliis  and  the  foUow^ing  para- 
graph: redeeming  the  time;  gaining  the  whole  world,  etc.;  ivaxing  old 
as  doth  a  garment;  and  so  on. 

under  a  certain  authentic  Symbol.  That  is,  embodied  in  the 
creed  of  the  Church  of  England. 

P.  132.  '  He  carried  me  with  him  to  the  Church  of  St.  Clement 
Danes,  where  he  had  his  seat ;  and  his  behavior  w^as,  as  I  had 
imaged  to  myself,  solemnly  devout.'     Boswell. 

P.  133.  impransus.  '  Dinnerless.'  One  of  Johnson's  letters  to 
Cave  is  signed  '  Yours,  impransus.' 

Parliamentary  Debates  .  .  .  Senate-of-Lilliput  Debates. 
In  1732  Cave  had  begun  to  publish  in  his  Gentleman's  Magazine 
certain  papers  which  claimed  to  be  genuine  reports  of  the  debates 
in  Parliament,  though  the  names  of  the  speakers  were  thinly  dis- 
guised. These  reports  were  so  fragmentary  and  inaccurate  that 
they  caused  great  dissatisfaction  in  Parliament;  and  finally,  in 
1738,  shortly  before  Johnson  became  a  contributor  to  the  Magazine, 
a  resolution  of  Parliament  forbade  their  publication.  It  was  at 
some  personal  risk,  therefore,  that  Johnson  undertook  to  wa-ite  a 
series  of  debates  purporting  to  come  from  Lilliput,  but  really  a 
continuation  of  the  former  series.  As  Johnson  himself  never 
entered  Parliament,  and  the  debates  w^ere  largely  fictions,  in  which, 
by  his  own  confession,  he  '  took  care  that  the  Whig  Dogs  should 
not  have  the  best  of  it,'  their  writing  seems  to  bear  little  upon  the 
subject  of  the  Fourth  Estate.  See  in  this  volume.  The  Hero  as 
Man  of  Letters,  p.  214. 

P.  134.  the  blessing  of  Old  Mortality.  See  the  introduction 
to  Scott's  Old  Mortality. 

P.  13.5.  'He  said  a  man  might  live  ...  at  eighteenpence,' 
etc.  Carlyle  quotes  this  as  if  it  had  been  said  by  Boswell  of 
Johnson.  The  passage  occurs  in  Boswell's  Life,  but  it  is  Johnson 
who  is  reporting  the  words  of  an  early  Irish  acquaintance  of  his. 

'when  Dr.  Johnson  .  .  .  read  his  own  satire.'  The  Vanity 
of  Human  Wishes.     This  story  is  told  by  Mrs.  Piozzi. 


270  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

Tempus  edax  rerum,  '•  Time,  the  consumer  of  all  things.' 
Ovid,  MetamorpJioses,  XV.  234.  —  ferax,  'producer.' 

P.  186.  '  One  day  it  shall  delight  you  also,'  etc.  '  Forsan  et 
hcec  olim  meminisse  juvaUt.'     uEneid,  Bk.  I.  203. 

Constantine's  Banner.  The  Emperor  Constantine  (a.d.  312) 
adopted  for  his  standard  a  cross,  and  the  motto  ' In  Jioc  s'lgno 
vinces'  (In  this  sign  thou  wilt  conquer). 

P.  138.    'An  inspired  idiot.'    This  was  said  by  Horace  Walpole. 

'gooseberry-fool.'  See  the  dictionary;  and  Goldsmith's  poem 
RetaUatlcm,  in  wliieh  he  applies  the  term  to  himself. 

'  could  not  stop  his  merriment,'  etc.  It  is  hard  to  account  for 
this  absurd  seizure  of  Johnson's,  as  there  was  apparently  nothing 
ludicrous  in  the  circumstance. 

P.  139.  Thralia.  Mrs.  Thrale  (afterward  Mrs.  Piozzi),  the 
kindest  influence  of  Johnson's  later  years.  He  gives  her  name  the 
present  form  in  certain  Latin  verses  addressed  to  her. 

Bozzy.     The  nickname  is  Johnson's. 

res  gestae,  '  affairs  transacted.' 

Stat  Parvi  nominis  umbra.  An  adaptation  of  Lucan's  saying 
of  Pompey,  '■Stat  magni  nominis  umhra.'  {Pharsalia,  I.  135.) 
'  There  remains  the  shadow  of  a  mighty  name.'  '  Stat  nominis 
umhra'  was  the  motto  of  the  famous  'Letters  of  Junius.' 

the  insanest  of  all  loud  clamors.  This  clamor  was  not  un- 
natural in  view  of  the  definition  of  pension  which  had  appeared  in 
the  Dictionary :  'An  allowance  made  to  anyone  without  an  equiva- 
lent. In  England  it  is  generally  understood  to  mean  pay  given 
to  a  state  hireling  for  treason  to  his  country.' 

Overseer.  A  literal  translation  of  the  Greek  cTrto-KOTros,  from 
which  '  bishop '  is  derived.  —  Horse-subduers  is  evidently  a  remi- 
niscence of  the  Homeric  linTohajxoL. 

P.  140.  Primate  of  England  is  the  official  title  of  the  Arch- 
bishop of  York ;  Primate  of  All  England,  of  the  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury. 

P.  143.  Chalk-Farm.  A  favorite  dueling  ground  near  London 
during  the  early  part  of  this  century. 

P.  144.  Peterloos.  On  St.  Peter's  Field,  near  Manchester,  in 
1819,  a  reform  meeting  was  broken  up  by  a  detachment  of  cavalry. 
Tlie  occurrence  of  the  fracas  so  soon  after  Waterloo,  led  to  its 
being  dubbed  satirically  'the  Field  of  Peterloo.' 


BoswelVs   Life    of  Johnson.  271 

P.  148.  It  was  a  happier  time.  Contrast  with  this  Carlyle's 
frequent  condemnation  of  the  eighteenth  century  as  an  age  of 
fi'aud. 

Apocalyptic  Bladder.  The  rending  of  the  bhadder  of  Puffery 
is  compared  with  the  pouring  out  of  the  vials  (Revised  Version, 
bowls)  of  wrath.     See  Rev.  xv.  and  xvi. 

Church  of  England.  To  a  Scotch  Presbyterian  minister  who 
talked  of  'fat  bishops  and  drowsy  deans/  Johnson  said  testily, 
<Sir,  you  know  no  more  of  our  Church  than  a  Hottentot.' 

P.  149.  Salve,  magna  parens  !  Virgil,  Georgics,  II.  173.  In 
Johnson's  Dictionary  these  words  follow  the  mention  of  Lichfield. 

P.  150.  a  less  capable  reporter.  Croker.  The  preceding 
quotation  is  from  Boswell.  The  letter  is  reported  from  memory, 
and  was  addressed  to  the  lady  w^io  was  then  Johnson's  hostess. 

P.  151.    'moonlight  of  memory.'     A  phrase  of  Richter's. 

P.  152.  Renny  dear.  Johnson's  pet  name  for  the  sister  of  Sir 
Joshua,  Miss  Reynolds,  for  whom  he  had  a  great  affection. 

P.  154.  evidence  enough.  The  question  at  issue  was  the 
possible  profit  of  investigating  ghost-stories  for  the  purpose  of 
learning  more  about  the  future  life.  Dr.  Adams  claimed  that  we 
have  such  other  'intimations  of  immortality'  as  to  render  the 
truth  or  falsity  of  these  phenomena  a  trivial  matter.  Carlyle 
touches  unwittingly  the  weakest  point  in  Johnson's  faith,  the 
confessed  '  fear  of  annihilation '  at  death  which  makes  him  grasp 
at  every  shred  of  evidence,  less  either  in  fair-minded  inquiry  or  in 
pure  credulity  than  in  the  desperation  that  snatches  at  straws. 

'good  yeoman,  whose  limbs,'  etc.  See  note  on  p.  198  of  this 
volume. 

acerrimi  ingenii,  paucarum  literarum.  'Of  keenest  intelli- 
gence, but  of  slight  culture.' 

<■  story  from  a  Clergyman,'  etc.  '  He  said  no  honest  man  could 
be  a  deist,'  Boswell  reports ;  '  for  no  man  could  be  so  after  a  fair 
examination  of  the  proofs  of  Christianity.  I  named  Hume.  John- 
son, "  Xo,  Sir  :  Hume  owned  to  a  clergyman  in  the  bishopric  of 
Durham  that  he  had  never  read  the  New  Testament  with  atten- 
tion." '  Elsewhere  Johnson  calls  Hume  an  '  echo  of  Voltaire ' ;  a 
much  less  plausible  comment  than  his  similar  characterization  of 
Frederick  the  Great. 

'milking  the  Bull.'     'Truth,  Sir,'  said  Johnson  to  Boswell,  'is 


272  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

a  cow  which  will  yield  such  people  no  more  milk,  and  so  they  are 
gone  to  milk  the  Bull.' 

kitchen-Latin.     An  imitation  of  the  German  '  Kuchen-latein.' 

Editiones  Principes.     '  First  editions  '  of  the  Classics. 

"Monsheer  Nongtongpaw !  "  British  for  'Monsieur  N'en- 
tend-pas  '  ('  Mr.  Doesn't-understand ').  At  Versailles,  in  1775,  with 
the  shadow  of  the  French  Revolution  already  on  the  land,  Johnson 
notes  that  the  Queen  has  a  brown  habit,  a  gray  horse,  and  a  bridle 
mounted  with  silver  ;  that  the  King's  dogs  are  of  an  inferior  breed ; 
and  that  the  King  feeds  himself  with  his  left  hand. 

P.  155-  '  with  the  bayonet  of  necessity  at  his  back.'  Quoted 
from  the  little-read  Memoirs  of  Johmon,  by  Cumberland. 

P.  156.  Through  life  they  did  not  meet.  It  is  said  that  they 
once  called  on  Boswell  on  the  same  day,  in  the  year  1769. 


HEKOES   AND  HEUO-WORSHIP. 

[1840.] 

*  Canst  thou  in  any  measure  spread  abroad  reverence  over  the  hearts  of 
men?  That  loere  a  far  higher  task  than  any  o^/ier.'  — Carlyle's  Journal, 
1831. 

The  history  of  Carlyle's  lecturing  can  be  given  best  in  his  own 
words,  for  he  has  told  the  whole  story  in  his  correspondence  with 
Emerson. 

In  1835,  he  wrote  :  '  Lecturing  (or  I  would  rather  it  were  speaking) 
is  a  thing  I  have  always  had  some  hankering  after :  it  seems  to  me  I 
could  really  swim  in  that  element,  were  I  once  thrown  into  it ;  that  in 
fact  it  would  develop  several  things  in  me  which  struggle  violently  for 
development.'  Two  years  later,  moved  partly  by  a  genuine  impulse 
toward  the  new  outlet  of  speech,  and  still  more  by  pressing  need  of 
money,  he  gave  a  course  of  lectures  on  German  Literature  ;  followed 
later  by  two  other  series,  on  the  History  of  European  Literature,  and 
Bevolutions.  All  this  lecturing  seems  to  have  given  him  little  satis- 
faction, although  he  spoke  to  enthusiastic  audiences.  In  1839  he  wrote 
again  to  Emerson :  '  My  Lectures  [on  Heroes  and  Hero-ioorship] 
come  on  this  day  two  weeks.  O  heaven  !  /cannot  "  speak"  ;  I  can 
only  gasp  and  writhe  and  stutter,  a  spectacle  to  gods  and  fashionables 
—  being  forced  to  it  for  want  of  money.'  And  again,  six  weeks  after- 
ward, with  a  hint  (which  proved  to  be  a  prophecy)  that  he  was  done 
with  the  platform  :  '  My  Lectures  are  happily  over,  ten  days  ago  ;  with 
"success"  enough,  as  it  is  called,  the  only  valuable  part  of  which  is 
some  £  200,  gained  with  great  pain,  but  also  with  great  brevity.  .  .  . 
I  find  that  extempore  speaking,  especially  in  the  way  of  Lecture,  is 
an  art  or  craft,  which  I  have  never  served.  .  .  .  Books  are  the  last- 
ing thing  ;  Lectures  are  like  corn  ground  into  flour  ;  there  are  loaves 
for  to-day,  but  no  wheat-harvests  for  next  year.' 

The  six  lectures  on  Heroes,  Hero-vnorship,  and  the  Heroic  in  His- 
tory, were  not  published  till  1841,  when  Carlyle  no  longer  lacked 
money  or  friends.     Portions  of  the  earlier  lectures  have  been  frag- 
T  273 


274  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

mentarily  reported  by  Leigh  Hunt  and  others,  but  none  of  them  were 
cast  into  permanent  form  by  the  author ;  beyond  doubt  none  of  them 
so  well  deserved  preservation. 

In  this  volume  are  included,  as  a  supplement  to  the  preceding 
essays,  only  the  two  lectures  which  have  to  do  with  the  Literary  Hero. 
The  '  Introduction '  here  given  seems  to  be  properly  so  called,  although 
it  was  originally  delivered,  and  is  usually  printed,  as  a  part  of  the  first 
lecture,  on  The  Hero  as  Divinity. 

Introduction. 

P.  158.  History  ...  is  at  bottom  the  History  of  Great 
Men.     Does  this  supersede  his  earlier  definition  {History^  p.  69)? 

P.  159.  These  six  classes  of  Heroes.  Divinity,  Prophet,  Poet, 
Priest,  Man  of  Letters,  King. 

this  Paganism.    In  the  preceding  paragraph  he  had  written : 

'  It  is  well  said,  in  every  sense,  that  a  man's  religion  is  the  chief 
fact  with  regard  to  him.  ...  Of  a  man  or  of  a  nation  we  inquire, 
therefore,  first  of  all.  What  religion  they  had  ?  Was  it  Heathenism,  — 
plurality  of  gods,  mere  sensuous  representation  of  this  Mystery  of 
Life,  and  for  chief  recognized  element  therein  Physical  Force  ?  Was 
it  Christianism,  —  faith  in  an  Invisible,  not  as  real  only,  but  as  the 
only  reality  ;  time,  through  every  meanest  moment  of  it,  resting  on 
Eternity  ;  Pagan  empire  of  Force  displaced  by  a  nobler  supremacy, 
that  of  Holiness  ?  Was  it  Scepticism,  — uncertainty  and  inquiry 
whether  there  was  an  Unseen  World,  any  Mystery  of  Life  except  a 
mad  one  ;  — doubt  as  to  all  this,  or  perhaps  unbelief  and  flat  denial  ? 
Answering  of  this  question  is  giving  us  the  soul  of  the  history  of  the 
man  or  nation.' 

P.  160.  that  fancy  of  Plato's.  See  Jowett's  Translation  of 
Plato,  The  Republic,  Bk.  VII.  517. 

P.  161.  to  whosoever  will  think  of  it.  By  '  think,'  Carl}  le 
means  here,  as  elsewhere,  not  '  find  data,  and  by  reasoning  about 
them  come  to  some  philosophic  understanding  of  the  world,'  but 
rather  '  muse,  dwell  on  the  mysteries  of  life,  time,  the  universe ; 
and  by  the  attitude  of  w^onder  draw  inspiration  from  all  things.' 

P.  162.  <  All  was  Godlike  or  God.'  See  Carlyle's  first  essay 
on  Richter,  p.  20. 

P.  163.   the  mystery  in  us  that  calls  itself  "  I."     '  Das  wesen 


Heroes  mid  Hey'o-ivorship.  275 

das  sich  Ich  nennt,'  is  Teufelsdiockh's  version.  Sartor  Resartus, 
Chap.  VIIL,  p.  35. 

P.  164.  What  I  called  the  perplexed  jungle  of  Paganism, 
Do  you  find  this  phrase  in  any  of  the  preceding  paragraphs  ? 

P.  165.  Democracy,  Liberty  and  Equality,  etc.  The  same 
impulse  that  led  Carlyle,  as  the  years  passed,  to  put  more  and  more 
faith  in  the  value  of  Hero-worship  as  a  panacea,  increased  his  dis- 
trust in  the  democratic  idea. 

P.  166.  *  creature  of  the  Time.'  Read  again,  in  this  connec- 
tion, the  passage  on  p.  109,  beginning,  '  The  great  man  does,  in 
good  truth,  belong  to  his  own  age.' 

P.  167.  For  a  fuller  account  of  this  very  curious  Hero-wor- 
ship, see  the  essay  on  Voltaire,  pp.  145-155.  See  also  what  a 
Frenchman  thinks  of  Carlyle's  judgment  in  this  matter.  Taine's 
Eng.  Lit.,  Bk.  V.,  Chap.  iv. 

P.  168.  nay,  can  we  honestly  bow  down  to  anything  else? 
This  is  one  of  Carlyle's  most  frequently  recurring  thoughts.  See, 
for  example,  p.  164. 

P.  169.  As  early  as  1828  Carlyle  had  written  in  the  essay  on  Sir 
Walter  Scott:  'Understand  it  well,  this  of  hero-worship  was  the 
primary  creed,  and  has  intrinsically  been  the  secondary  and  ter- 
nary, and  will  be  the  ultimate  and  final  creed  of  mankind ;  inde- 
structible, changing  in  shape,  but  in  essence  unchangeable.* 

The  Hero  as  Poet. 

P.  171.  Napoleon  has  words,  etc.  Is  it  probable  from  what 
we  know  of  Napoleon's  literary  attempts  that  he  could  ever  have 
become  a  great  Man  of  Letters  V  or  from  what  we  know  of  Shak- 
speare's  connection  with  the  theatre  that  he  could  ever  have  become 
an  actor  '  in  the  supreme  degree  '  ?  Carlyle  himself,  great  as  he  was 
in  his  own  sphere,  failed  utterly  in  his  attempts  at  poetry. 

P.  172.  as  Addison  complains.  See  Spectator,  No.  307.  The 
paper  is  Budgell's,  not  Addison's. 

'the  Divine  Idea  of  the  World.'  Fichte's  theory,  which  is 
stated  again  in  The  Hero  as  Man  of  Letters,  had  been  developed  at 
length  in  the  essay  on  German  Literature  (1827),  pp.  49-51. 

P.  174.  a  saying  of  Goethe's,  which  has  staggered  several. 
This  saying  had  staggered  Carlyle  himself,  as  is  shown  by  numer- 


276  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

ous  passages  in  his  journal  for  1830.  His  effort  to  translate  this 
'  Hellenism  '  into  '  Hebraism/  to  reconcile  the  point  of  view  of  the 
Greek  with  that  of  the  Puritan,  is  almost  pathetically  evident  in 
the  following  extracts : 

*  What  is  art  and  poetry  ?  Is  the  beautiful  really  higher  than  the 
good  ?  A  higher  form  thereof  ?  .  .  .  When  Goethe  and  Schiller  say 
or  insinuate  that  art  is  higher  than  religion,  do  they  mean  perhaps 
this?  —  That  whereas  religion  represents  the  good  as  infinitely  differ- 
ent from  the  evil,  but  sets  them  in  a  state  of  hostility,  art  likewise 
admits  and  inculcates  this  quite  infinite  difference,  but  loithont  hos- 
tility, with  peacefulness,  like  the  difference  of  two  poles  which  cannot 
coalesce,  yet  do  not  quarrel  —  nay,  should  not  quarrel,  for  both  are 
essential  to  the  whole.  In  this  way  is  Goethe's  morality  to  be  con- 
sidered as  a  higher  than  has  hitherto  been  promulgated?  ...  On 
the  whole  I  wish  I  could  define  to  myself  the  true  relation  of  moral 
genius  to  poetic  genius.' 

not  the  noblest  Shakspeare  or  Homer.     Cf.  p.  136. 

P.  175.    late  German  critics.     Goethe  and  Hegel,  for  example. 

the  melody  .  .  .  the  inward  harmony.  Does  Carlyle  observe 
the  ordinary  distinction  between  these  terms? 

P.  176.  The  Greeks  fabled  of  Sphere-Harmonies.  According 
to  the  ancients,  the  planets  moved  in  separate  spheres,  which  in 
their  revolutions  gave  out  musical  sounds. 

'There's  not  the  smallest  orb  which  thou  behold'st, 
But  in  his  motion  like  an  angel  sings. ' 

—  Merchant  of  Venice. 

For  a  good  explanation  of  the  Ptolemaic  astronomical  theory, 
see,  in  the  '  Globe '  Milton,  Masson's  Introduction  to  Paradise  Lost. 

P.  177.  Men  worship  the  shows  of  great  men.  This  sort  of 
worship  Carlyle  says  elsewhere  is  better  than  none  at  all,  though, 
in  general,  'shows,'  'hulls,'  'wrappages,'  'simulacra,'  are  expres- 
sions of  his  strongest  contempt.  See  the  essay  on  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  p.  23. 

P.  179.    school-divinity.     Theology. 

Beatrice  Portinari.  The  spirit  of  their  relations  to  each  other 
is  daintily  caught  in  the  '  Dante  and  Beatrice  '  of  Landor's  Imagi- 
nary Conversations. 


Heroes  and  Hero-worship.  277 

P.  180.  the  rigorous  earnest  man  .  .  .  not  altogether  easy 
to  make  happy.  iS'^o  words  could  have  fitted  Carlyle's  own  case 
more  aptly. 

confused  disturbances. 

'  What  Florence  was  during  his  youth  and  manhood,'  says  Lowell, 
'  with  its  Guelphs  and  Ghibellines,  its  nobles  and  trades,  its  Bianchi 
and  Neri,  its  kaleidoscopic  revolutions,  "  all  parties  loving  liberty  and 
doing  their  best  to  destroy  her,"  as  Voltaire  says,  it  would  be  beyond 
our  province  to  tell.  Foreshortened  as  events  are  when  we  look  back 
on  them  through  so  many  ages,  only  the  upheavals  of  party  conflict 
catching  the  eye,  while  the  spaces  of  peace  between  them  sink  out  of 
the  view  of  history,  a  whole  century  seems  like  a  mere  wild  chaos.' 

Briefly,  Dante  was  a  Guelph,  one  of  the  papal  party  which  always 
opposed  itself  to  the  imperialist  Ghibellines.  The  Bianchi  and  the 
Neri  were  two  great  Florentine  families  which  had  long  been  at  feud. 
On  the  perpetration  of  an  unexampled  outrage  in  connection  with 
this  feud,  Dante,  as  magistrate,  condemned  the  culprits  in  both  fac- 
tions so  impartially  as  to  earn  the  hatred  of  both,  and  finally  to 
receive  exile  at  their  hands. 

P.  181.   Can  della  Scala. 

'According  to  Balbo,  Dante  spent  the  time  from  August,  1313,  to 
November,  1314,  in  Pisa  and  Lucca,  and  then  took  refuge  at  Verona, 
with  Can  Grande  della  Scala  (whom  Voltaire  calls,  drolly  enough,  le 
grande-Can  [Great  Khan]  de  Verone,  as  if  he  had  been  a  Tartar), 
where  he  remained  till  1318.'  —  Lowell. 

P.  182.  bodied  in  fixed  certainty.  Cf.  Macaulay's  remark  on 
Dante's  treatment  of  the  supernatural,  in  the  essay  on  Milton. 

Malebolge  Pool.    See  Dante's  Inferno,  Canto  XVIII. 

alti  guai,  'loud  cries  of  woe.'  G'««<  =  Latin  vae.  Dante  does 
not  use  the  word  in  connection  with  Malebolge. 

Divine  Comedy.  '  Dante  tells  us,'  says  Lowell  again,  '  that  he 
calls  his  poem  a  comedy  because  it  has  a  fortunate  ending.  Lapse 
through  sin,  mediation,  and  redemption  ;  these  are  the  three  X)arts 
of  the  poem.' 

P.  183.  It  has  been  suggested  that  Carlyle's  early  and  painful 
discovery  that  he  himself  had  no  vocation  for  singing,  gave  edge 
to  his  subsequent  criticisms  of  contemporary  poetry. 


278  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

P.  184.  those  Scandinavian  ones  the  other  day.  The  critics 
mentioned  in  the  lecture  on  The  Hero  as  Divinity,  who  would  regard 
the  Scandinavian  and  every  Pagan  religion  as  mere  allegory.  '  The 
Pilgrim's  Progress  is  an  Allegory,'  says  Carlyle,  finely, '  and  a  beauti- 
ful, just,  and  serious  one  ;  but  consider  whether  Bunyan's  Allegory 
could  have  j^receded  the  faith  it  symbolizes  ! ' 

P.  185.  ho-w  unconscious  of  any  embleming  I  Consider 
whether  this  is  true,  in  view  of  the  following  statement  of 
Dante's :  '  The  literal  subject  of  the  whole  work  is  the  state  of 
the  soul  after  death,  simply  considered.  But  if  the  work  be  taken 
allegorically,  the  subject  is  man,  as  by  merit  or  demerit,  through 
freedom  of  the  will,  he  renders  himself  liable  to  the  reward  or 
punishment  of  justice.     My  theme  is  Man,  not  a  man.' 

P.  186.  'Bastard  Christianism.'  That  is,  Mahometanism ; 
previously  discussed  in  The  Hero  as  Prophet. 

P.  187.  with  good  and  evil  strangely  blended.  For  a  differ- 
ent estimate  of  Mahomet's  influence,  see  Harper's  Magazine,  Sept., 
1895:  'Arabia  —  Islam  and  the  Eastern  Question.' 

P.  188.  Let  us  honor  the  great  empire  of  Silence.  Is  there 
any  special  incongruity  in  the  introduction  of  this  doctrine  just 
here  ? 

P.  189.   The  'Tree  Igdrasil.' 

'  I  like,  too,  that  representation  they  have  of  the  Tree  Igdrasil.  All 
life  is  figured  by  them  as  a  Tree.  Igdrasil,  the  Ash-tree  of  Existence, 
has  its  roots  deep  down  in  the  kingdoms  of  Hela  or  Death  ;  its  trunk 
reaches  up  heaven-high,  spreads  its  boughs  over  the  whole  Universe; 
it  is  the  Tree  of  Existence.  At  the  foot  of  it,  in  the  Death-Kingdom, 
sit  Three  Nomas,  Fates, — the  Past,  Present,  Future;  watering  its 
roots  from  the  sacred  well.  Its  "  boughs,"  with  their  buddings  and  dis- 
leafings,  —  events,  things  suffered,  things  done,  catastrophes,  — stretch 
through  all  lands  and  times.  Is  not  every  leaf  of  it  a  biography,  every 
fibre  there  an  act  or  word  ?  Its  boughs  are  Histories  of  Nations.  The 
rustle  of  it  is  the  noise  of  Human  Existence,  onward  from  of  old.  It 
grows  there,  the  breath  of  Human  Passion  rustling  through  it ;  —  or 
storm- tost,  the  storm  wind  howling  through  it  like  the  voice  of  all  the 
gods.  It  is  Igdrasil,  the  Tree  of  Existence.  It  is  the  past,  the  pres- 
ent, and  the  future  ;  what  was  done,  what  is  doing,  what  will  be  done  ; 
"  the  infinite  conjugation  of  the  verb  To  do.'' '—  The  Hero  as  Divinity, 
p.  18. 


Heroes  and  Hero-ivorshiv.  279 


P.  191.   It  has  been  said,  etc.     Where  else  in  this  volume? 

P.  194.  But  words  ought  not  to  harden  into  things  for  us. 
Here  is  one  of  those  swift,  conclusive,  crassically  simple  sentences 
which  now  and  then  stand  in  relief  against  the  background  of 
Carlyle's  uncouth  vernacular. 

P.  197.  Not  at  mere  weakness.  Is  there  nothing  of  this  sort 
in  the  dialogue  between  Launcelot  Gobbo  and  his  father?  See 
Merchant  of  Venice,  Act  II.,  Sc.  2. 

Dogberry  and  Verges.     See  Much  Ado  about  Nothing. 

Wilhelm  Meister.  One  of  Carlyle's  earliest  bits  of  literary 
work  was  his  translation  of  Goethe's  novel,  Wilhelm  Meister's 
Apprenticeship. 

Henry  Fifth.  Macaulay  in  his  essay  on  History  estimates 
favorably  the  historical  value  of  Shakespeare's  Henrt/  V.,  in  com- 
parison with  the  work  of  Herodotus. 

P.  198.  '  Ye  good  yeomen,  whose  limbs  were  made  in 
England!'  The  original  reads,  'And  you,  good  yeomen,'  etc. 
King  Henry  made  this  address  not  at  Agincourt,  but  before  the 
walls  of  Harfleur.     See  Henrij  F.,  Act  III.,  Sc.  1. 

P.  199.    Disjecta  membra,  '  scattered  fragments.' 

*  We  are  such  stuff  as  Dreams  are  made  of.'  See  The 
Tempest,  Act  JY.,Sc.l. 

P.  202.  poor  Italy  lies  dismembered.  AYhen  did  Italy  be- 
come politically  a  unit  ? 

The  Hero  as  Man  of  Letters. 

'Could  ambition  always  choose  its  own  path,  and  were  will  in 
human  undertakhigs  synonymous  with  faculty,  all  truly  ambitious 
men  would  be  men  of  letters.'  —  Essay  on  Voltaire  (1829),  p.  120. 

P.  205.  The  world's  manner  of  dealing  with  him  .  .  .  the 
significant  feature.     Cf .  p.  172. 

P.  207.  Carlyle's  devotion  to  Goethe  is  hard  to  understand. 
(See  note  on  p.  174.)  He  himself  accounted  for  it  (in  a  letter  to 
Emerson,  1835)  as  follows :  '  But  I  will  tell  you  in  a  word  wdiy  I 
like  Goethe ;  his  is  the  only  healthy  mind,  of  any  extent,  that  I 
have  discovered  in  Europe  for  long  genei'etc:'^~\Jariyie  ay^... 

P.  210.  '  Odin's  Runes  are  a  sig-i' of  Louis  XIV.  in  'Medita- 
and  the  miracles  of  "m"oA:efc/i  BooJc  (first  published  in  1810). 


280  Selections  from  Carlyle. 

feature  in  tradition.  Runes  are  the  Scandinavian  alphabet ;  sup- 
pose Odin  to  have  been  the  inventor  of  Letters,  as  well  as  ^'  magic," 
among  that  people.'     See  The  Hero  as  Divinity,  p.  25. 

dumb  mournful  wrecks  and  blocks.  Where  else  in  this 
volume  has  Carlyle  said  substantially  this  ?  Does  it  seem  to  you 
to  be  true  ? 

Who  is  the  French  sceptic  ? 

P.  215.  Whoever  can  speak  .  .  .  becomes  a  power.  Is 
this  to  be  reconciled  with  the  'silence'  doctrine? 

P.  216.  the  Press  superseding  the  Pulpit,  etc.  In  later  life 
Carlyle  called  journalism  '  mean  and  demoralizing,'  and  said  "  We 
must  destroy  the  faith  in  newspapers." 

Senatus  Academicus.     That  is,  the  University. 

P.  217.  Poverty  may  still  enter  as  an  important  element. 
In  a  letter  to  Emerson  (1835),  Carlyle  had  argued  differently :  '  And 
then  as  to  "  misery,"  and  the  other  dark  ground  on  which  you  love 
to  see  genius  paint  itself,  —  alas  !  consider  whether  misery  is  not 
ill-health  too  ;  also  whether  good  fortune  is  not  worse  to  bear  than 
bad ;  and  on  the  whole  whether  the  glorious  serene  summer  is  not 
greater  than  the  wildest  hurricane,  —  as  Light,  the  naturalists  say, 
is  stronger  a  thousand  times  than  Lightning?'  His  own  experi- 
ence, however,  had  been  and  was  to  be  the  triumph  over  adversity 
rather  than  over  prosperity.  Three  years  later  he  wrote,  '  Thou 
beggarliest  Spectre  of  Beggary,  that  has  chased  me  ever  since  I 
was  a  man,  come  on,  then,  in  the  Devil's  name  ;  let  us  see  what  is 
in  thee!  Will  the  Soul  of  a  man,  with  Eternity  within  a  few 
years  of  it,  quail  before  thee  .^  ' 

P.  219.  punctum  saliens.  Freely,  '  prime  essential.'  Recall 
in  this  connection  the  passage  in  Macaulay's  essay  on  BosweWs 
Johnson  in  which  he  speaks  of  the  literary  rewards  of  Addison  and 
his  contemporaries.  Was  there  not  then  at  least  the  beginning  of 
an  *  arrangement  for  the  Literary  class '  ? 

P.  220.  of  all  others  the  best  worth  trying.  For  an  extreme 
example  of  this  structure,  once  in  common  use,  see  Milton's 

'Adam  the  goodliest  man  of  men  since  born 
_^  JEIjs  sons  -,  the  fairest  of  her  daughters  Eve.' 
-.  mfinite  conjugation  of  the  ^ .  -  ^^''^^^^'^^  ^^^^'  ^^'  ^^• 

P*  -^^^  '    "^  -wpr's  Reader's  Handbook. 


Heroes  and  Hero-worship.  281 

P.  222.  the  clank  of  spinning-jennies.  In  his  second  series 
of  lectures,  Carlyle  is  reported  to  have  commended  the  spinning- 
jenny  as  one  of  the  few  memorable  achievements  of  the  despised 
eighteenth  century.  He  elsewhere  proves  that  he  is  not  indifferent 
to  the  value  of  improvements  in  practical  machinery.  Here  he 
means  to  condemn  the  introduction  of  'mechanism'  into  the  spirit- 
ual concerns  of  mankind;  and  to  uphold  the  doctrine  of  'dyna- 
mism'—  the  consideration  of  the  force  which  is  behind,  and 
infinitely  more  important  than,  the  substance. 

P.  224.  Cagliostro.  '  Count  Alessandro  di  Cagliostro,  ...  by 
profession  a  healer  of  diseases,  abolisher  of  wi-inkles,  friend  of  the 
poor  and  impotent,  grand-master  of  the  Egyptian  mason-lodge 
of  High  Science,  Spirit-Summoner,  .  .  .  Prophet,  Priest,  and 
swindler ;  really  a  Liar  of  the  first  magnitude,  thorough-paced 
in  all  provinces  of  lying;  what  one  might  call  the  King  of  Liars.' 
See  Carlyle's  essay  on  Count  Cagliostro. 

P.  225.  Gross  Benthamism.  '  What  is  Jeremy  Bentham's  sig- 
nificance? Altogether  intellectual,  logical.  I  name  him  as  the 
representative  of  a  class  important  only  for  their  numbers,  intrin- 
sically wearisome,  almost  pitiable.'     Carlyle's  Journal  (1830). 

P.  227.  Mahomet's  Formulas  were  of  wood.  That  is,  the 
formulas  which  he  had  to  destroy  before  he  could  do  what  he  was 
sent  to  do,  were  in  the  shape  of  the  wooden  idols  which  were  then 
commonly  worshiped  in  Arabia. 

P.  228.  Nessus-shirt.  See  Smith's  Classical  Dictionary  under 
'Hercules,'  or  better  Brewer's  Reader's  Handbook  under  '  Nessus's 
Shirt.' 

P.  230.  poet.  Italicized  for  the  purpose  of  calling  attention  to 
the  derivative  meaning  of  the  word. 

P.  232.  truth  which  he  feels  to  be  true.  "  Every  man  has  a 
right  to  utter  what  he  thinks  the  truth,"  said  Johnson,  "and  every 
other  man  has  a  right  to  knock  him  down  for  it.  Martyrdom  is 
the  test." 

P.  233.  A  wondrous  buckram  style.  Read  the  comment  on 
Carlyle's  excuse  of  Johnson's  rhetoric  in  Taine,  Eng.  Lit.,  Bk.  V., 
Chap.  lY. 

P.  234.  Strip  your  Louis  Quatorze,  etc.  Carlyle  apparently 
had  in  mind  Thackeray's  caricature  of  Louis  XIV.  in  'Medita- 
tions at  Versailles,'  Paris  Sketch  Book  (first  published  in  1840). 


282  Selections  from   Carlyle. 

P.  235.  Genlis.  Felicite  de  St.  Aubin,  Comtesse  de  Genlis. 
See,  for  instance,  Lippincott's  Biographical  Dictionary. 

P.  236.  Contrat-social.  A  document  formulating  the  commu- 
nistic theories  which  Robespierre  and  his  colleagues  attempted 
later  to  put  into  practice. 

P.  237.  stealings  of  ribbons.  As  a  youth  Rousseau,  while  in 
the  domestic  service  of  a  Madame  de  Vercellis,  stole  a  ribbon  from 
his  mistress ;  and  when  it  was  found,  not  only  denied  the  theft, 
but  deliberately  shifted  the  suspicion  upon  a  fellow-servant,  a 
woman  to  w^hom  he  professed  to  be  attached. 

P.  238.   exasperated,  till  the  heart  of  him  went  mad. 

'  All  men  are  not  patient  docile  Johnsons  ;  some  of  them  are  half- 
mad  inflammable  Rousseaus.  Such,  in  peculiar  times,  you  may  drive 
too  far.  Society  in  France,  for  example,  was  not  destitute  of  cash. 
Society  contrived  to  pay  Philippe  d' Orleans  (not  yet  Egalit^)  three 
hundred  thousand  a-year  and  odd,  for  driving  cabriolets  through  the 
streets  of  Paris  and  other  work  done  ;  but  in  cash,  encouragement, 
arrangement,  recompense,  or  recognition  of  any  kind,  it  had  nothing 
to  give  this  same  half-mad  Rousseau  for  his  work  done  ;  whose  brain 
in  consequence,  too  "  much  enforced  "  for  a  weak  brain,  uttered  hasty 
sparks,  Contrat-social  and  the  like,  which  proved  not  so  quenchable 
again.'  — C7m/'f/sm,  Chap.  VII.  (1839). 

P.  240.  in  the  general  language  of  England.  Carlyle  means, 
of  course,  '  Had  he  been  able  to  write  in  English  only  so  much 
genuine  poetry  as  he  has  given  us  in  his  rude  dialect,'  etc. 

old  Marquis  Mirabeau.     The  father  of  the  great  Mirabeau. 

P.  241.  a  venerable  gentleman.  Murdoch,  Burns's  old  school- 
master. 

P.  242.  bellowed  forth  Ushers  de  Brezd.  We  quote  in  full 
the  passage  in  the  essay  on  Mirabeau  (1837)  which  explains  this 
allusion : 

'  Mirabeau' s  history  through  the  first  twenty-three  months  of  the 
Revolution  falls  not  to  be  written  here :  yet  it  is  well  worth  writing 
somewhere.  The  Constituent  Assembly,  when  his  name  was  first  read 
out,  received  it  with  murmurs  ;  not  knowing  what  they  murmured  at ! 
This  honorable  member  they  were  murmuring  over  was  the  member 
of  all  members ;  the  august  Constituent,  without  him,  were  no  Con- 
stituent at  all.     Very  notable,  truly,  is  his  procedure  in  this  section 


Heroes  and  Hero-worship.  283 

of  world-history  ;  by  far  the  notablest  shigle  element  there  :  none  like 
to  him,  or  second  to  him.  Once  he  is  seen  visibly  to  have  saved,  as 
with  his  own  force,  the  existence  of  the  Constituent  Assembly  ;  to 
have  turned  the  whole  tide  of  things  :  in  one  of  those  moments  which 
are  cardinal ;  decisive  for  centuries.  The  royal  Declaration  of  the 
Ticenty-third  of  June  is  promulgated :  there  is  military  force  enough  ; 
there  is  then  the  King's  express  order  to  disperse,  to  meet  as  separate 
Third  Estate  on  the  morrow.  Bastilles  and  scaffolds  may  be  the  pen- 
alty of  disobeying.  Mirabeau  disobeys ;  lifts  his  voice  to  encourage 
others,  all  pallid,  panic-stricken,  to  disobey.  Supreme  Usher  de 
Br^z^  enters,  with  the  King's  renewed  order  to  depart.  "  Messieurs," 
said  De  Br^z^,  "you  heard  the  King's  order?"  The  Swallower  of 
Formulas  bellows-out  these  words,  that  have  become  memorable : 
"Yes,  Monsieur,  we  heard  what  the  King  was  advised  to  say;  and 
you,  who  cannot  be  interpreter  of  his  meaning  to  the  States- General ; 
you,  who  have  neither  vote,  nor  seat,  nor  right  of  speech  here,  you  are 
not  the  man  to  remind  us  of  it.  Go,  Monsieur,  tell  those  who  sent 
you,  that  we  are  here  by  will  of  the  Nation  ;  and  that  nothing  but  the 
force  of  bayonets  can  drive  us  hence  !  "  And  poor  De  Brez^  vanishes, 
—  back  foremost,  the  Fils  Adoptif  ss.ys.'' 


ENGLISH. 


Orations  and  Arguments 

Edited  by  Professor  C.  B.  Bradley,  University  of  California.     i2mo, 
cloth,  385  pages.     Price^  ^i.oo. 

The  following  speeches  are  contained  in  the  book :  — 
Burke:  Webster: 

On  Conciliation  with  the  Col-  The  Reply  to  Hayne. 

onies,  and  Speech  before  the  Elec-        Macaulay  : 

tors  at  Bristol.  r\    ^-u    x^  t         t>-u    c    o 

_  On  the  Reform  Bill  of  i8';2. 

Chatham :  „ 

.  „  .  Calhoun : 
On  American  Affairs.  /-%    ^.i.    c-i  ^ 

_  On  the  Slavery  Question. 

Erskine:  „ 

,  ,  ,    ^  Seward  : 
In  the  Stockdale  Case.  /^    ^.i,    t  -1.1    r-     a-  ^ 

On  the  Irrepressible  Conflict. 
Lincoln : 

The  Gettysburg  Address. 

IN  making  this  selection,  the  test  applied  to  each  speech  was 
that  it  should  be  in  itself  memorable,  attaining  its  distinc- 
tion through  the  essential  qualities  of  nobility  and  force  of  ideas, 
and  that  it  should  be,  in  topic,  so  related  to  the  great  thoughts, 
memories,  or  problems  of  our  own  time  as  to  have  for  us  still  an 
inherent  and  vital  interest. 

The  speeches  thus  chosen  have  been  printed  from  the  best 
available  texts,  without  change,  save  that  the  spelling  has  been 
made  uniform  throughout,  and  that  three  of  the  speeches  — 
those  of  Webster,  Calhoun,  and  Seward  —  have  been  shortened 
somewhat  by  the  omission  of  matters  of  merely  temporal  or 
local  interest.  The  omitted  portions  have  been  summarized  for 
the  reader,  whenever  they  bear  upon  the  main  argument. 

The  Notes  aim  to  furnish  the  reader  with  whatever  help  is 
necessary  to  the  proper  appreciation  of  the  speeches  ;  to  avoid 
bewildering  him  with  mere  subtleties  and  display  of  erudition ; 
and  to  encourage  in  him  habits  of  self-help  and  familiarity  with 
sources  of  information. 

A  special  feature  of  this  part  of  the  work  is  a  sketch  of  the 
English  Constitution  and  Government,  intended  as  a  general 
introduction  to  the  English  speeches. 

The  collection  includes  material  enough  to  permit  of  a  varied 
selection  for  the  use  of  successive  classes  in  the  schools. 


ENGLISH. 


Professor  J.  M.  Hart,  Cornell  University:  Bradley's  Orations  and  Argu- 
ments is  a  good  book.  I  am  glad  to  have  it,  and  shall  take  pleasure  in 
recommending  its  use.  The  thought  of  bringing  together  a  few  of  the 
best  speeches  by  the  best  Englishmen  and  Americans,  in  a  volume  of 
moderate  size,  is  an  excellent  one.  The  selection  is  judicious,  and  as 
representative  as  the  limits  permit.  The  annotation  seems  to  me  to  be 
sound.  I  am  especially  pleased  with  the  general  notes  on  the  English 
Constitution  and  Government.  They  ought  to  clear  up  a  good  many 
puzzles  and  obscurities  for  the  students. 

Professor  T.  W.  Hunt,  College  of  New  Jersey,  Princeton:  It  is  a  book  that 
will  be  of  practical  service  in  the  sphere  of  argumentation  and  forensic 
address.     The  notes  add  much  to  its  value. 

Professor  J.  H.  Penniman,  University  of  Pennsylvatiia:  It  seems  to  be  an 
excellent  book,  and  will  prove  a  great  aid  to  teachers  of  rhetoric  and  com- 
position. The  literary  side  of  oratory  is  prominently  set  forth  by  the 
selections  chosen. 

Byron  Groce,  Boston  Latin  School:  It  is  a  remarkably  fine  book;  fine  in 
selection,  in  editing,  in  print,  paper,  and  form.  I  wish  I  might  have 
copies  for  one  of  my  classes.  I  long  ago  publicly  urged  that  a  larger 
selection  of  orations  be  given  in  our  literature  courses,  which,  though 
perhaps  not  too  literary,  certainly  needed  the  variety  such  selections  as 
these  you  publish  will  give. 

Wilson  Farrand,  Newark  Academy,  N.  J.:  The  book  is  admirable  in  every 
way  —  selection  of  speeches,  annotation,  and  mechanical  execution.  The 
special  excellence  of  the  notes  seems  to  me  to  be  in  their  historical  sugges- 
tiveness,  and  the  special  value  of  the  book  in  its  connecting  literary  and 
historical  study. 

E.  H.  Lewis,  University  of  Chicago:  The  principles  on  which  these  selec- 
tions have  been  made  are  thoroughly  sound.  The  notes  are  adequate,  but 
not  too  full.     The  book  is  a  most  available  and  useful  one. 

Professor  Edward  E.  Hale,  Jr.,  lorva  State  University,  Iowa  City :  I  have 
read  the  larger  part  of  it  with  great  pleasure.  I  think  it  will  serve  its 
purpose  very  well,  for  the  selections  are  excellent,  and  so  are  the  notes. 
The  book  supplies  good  material  which  cannot  easily  be  found  else- 
where in  so  compact  a  form,  and  which  ought  to  be  a  great  help  to  many 
teachers. 

Professor  H.  N.  Snyder,  Wofford  College,  Spartanburg,  S.C:  These  judi- 
cious selections,  and  helpful  and  interesting  notes,  make  an  exceedingly 
useful  book. 


ENGLISH. 


From  Milton  to  Tennyson 

Masterpieces  of  English  Poetry.     Edited  by  L.  Du  Pont  Syle,  Uni- 
versity of  California.     i2mO;  cloth,  4S0  pages.     Price,  ^i.oo. 

IN  this  work  the  editor  has  endeavored  to  bring  together  within 
the  compass  of  a  moderate-sized  volume  as  much  narrative, 
descriptive,  and  lyric  verse  as  a  student  may  reasonably  be  re- 
quired to  read  critically  for  entrance  to  college.  From  the 
nineteen  poets  represented,  only  such  masterpieces  have  been 
selected  as  are  within  the  range  of  the  understanding  and  the 
sympathy  of  the  high  school  student.  Each  masterpiece  is 
given  complete,  except  for  pedagogical  reasons  in  the  cases  of 
Thomson,  Cowper,  Byron,  and  Browning.  Exigencies  of  space 
have  compelled  the  editor  reluctantly  to  omit  Scott  from  this 
volume.  The  copyright  laws,  of  course,  exclude  American  poets 
from  the  scope  of  this  work. 

The  low  price  of  the  book,  together  with  its  strong  and  attrac- 
tive binding,  make  it  especially  desirable  for  those  teachers  who 
read  with  their  classes  even  a  small  part  of  the  poems  it  contains. 

President  D.  S.  Jordan,  Leland  Stanford.,  Jr.,  University.  Cal. :  I  have  re- 
ceived the  copy  of  Mr.  Syle's  book,"  From  Milton  to  Tennyson,"  and  have 
looked  it  over  with  a  great  deal  of  interest.  It  seems  to  be  an  excellent 
work  for  the  purpose.  The  selections  seem  well  adapted  to  high  school 
use,  and  the  notes  are  wisely  chosen  and  well  stated. 

Professor  Henry  A.  Beers,  Yale  University:  The  notes  are  helpful  and 
suggestive.  What  is  more,  —  and  what  is  unusual  in  text-book  annota- 
tions, —  they  are  interesting  and  make  very  good  reading  ;  not  at  all  school- 
masterish,  but  really  Hterary  in  their  taste  and  discernment  of  nice  points. 

Professor  Elmer  E.  Wentworth,  Vassar  College:  It  is  a  most  attractive 
book  in  appearance  outward  and  inward,  the  selections  satisfactory  and 
just,  the  notes  excellent.  In  schools  where  less  time  is  given  than  in  ours, 
no  other  book  known  to  me,  me  Jndice,  will  be  so  good.  I  wish  to  com- 
mend the  notes  again. 

Wm.  E.  Griffis,  Ithaca,  N.Y.  ■  The  whole  work  shows  independent  research 
as  well  as  refined  taste  and  a  repose  of  judgment  tnat  is  admirable.  The 
selected  pieces  are  not  overburdened  with  critical  notes,  while  the  sugges- 
tions for  comparison  and  criticism,  to  be  made  by  the  student  himself,  are 
very  valuable. 


ENGLISH. 


Miss  Isabel  Graves,  lVe//es/ey  College,  IVellesley,  Mass.:  I  am  pleased 
with  the  appearance  of  the  book,  and  find  that  the  selection  of  masterpieces 
gives  the  desired  variety.  The  notes  are  fortunately  directed  against 
some  prejudices,  and  must  prove  suggestive. 

W.  E.  Sargent,  Hebron  Academy,  Hebron,  Me.:  The  book  is  a  gem  —  just 
enough  selections,  and  the  very  best  ones  of  each  author. 

F.  A.  Tupper,  Principal  of  High  School,  Qtiincy,  Mass.:  Mr.  Syle's  "From 
Milton  to  Tennyson  "  is  a  most  admirable  book  in  conception  and  execu- 
tion. The  selections,  both  of  authors  and  of  poems,  evince  true  poetic 
feeling  and  rare  taste.  The  sketches,  notes,  and  bibliography  everywhere 
bear  marks  of  sound  and  scientific  teaching  power.  The  book  is  adapted 
not  only  to  schools  and  colleges,  but  also  to  the  library  and  the  home.  I 
feel  indebted  to  the  editor  of  this  book,  and  in  expressing  my  approval, 
I  am  making  only  a  slight  return  for  the  profit  derived  from  the  volume. 

Professor  Edward  S.  Parsons,  Colorado  College :  I  find  the  book  extremely 
valuable  for  the  wisdom  of  its  selections ;  for  its  comprehensive,  yet  care- 
fully chosen  bibliography  ;  and  for  its  pointed  and  entertaining  style. 


The  following 

MILTON,  by  the 
DRYDEN  .     .     . 


poets  are  represented  : 


POPE      .     .  . 

THOMSON  . 

JOHNSON  . 

GRAY     .     .  . 
GOLDSMITH 

COWPER  . 

BURNS      .  . 

COLERIDGE 
BYRON      .     . 


KEATS .  . 
SHELLEY 
WORDSWORTH 

MACAULAY      .     . 
CLOUGH  .     .     .     . 


ARNOLD  .  . 
BROWNING 
TENNYSON 


L'Allegro,  II  Penseroso,  Lycidas,  and  a  Selection  from  the 

Sonnets. 
Epistle  to  Congreve,  Alexander's  Feast,  Character  of  a  Good 

Parson. 
Epistles  to  Mr.  Jervas,  to  Lord  Burlington,  and  to  Augustus. 
Winter. 

Vanity  of  Human  Wishes. 

Eleg}'  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard,  and  The  Bard. 
Deserted  Village. 
Winter  Morning's  Walk. 
Cotter's  Saturday  Night,  Tam  O'Shanter,  and  a  Selection 

from  the  Songs. 
Ancient  Mariner. 
Isles  of  Greece  and  Selections  from  Childe  Harold,  Manfred, 

and  the  Hebrew  Melodies. 
Eve  of  St.  Agnes,  Ode  to  a  Nightingale,  Sonnet  on  Chapman's 

Homer. 
Euganean   Hills,   The  Cloud,  The   Skylark,  and   the    Two 

Sonnets  on  the  Nile. 
Laodaniia,  The  Highland  Girl,Tintem  Abbev,  The  Cuckoo, 

The  Ode  to  a   Skylark,  The  INIilton   Sonnet,  The  ( )de  to 

Duty,  and  the  Ode  on  the  Intimations  of  Immortality. 
Horatius. 

Two  Ships,  the  Prologue  to  the  Mari  Magno,  and  The  Law- 
yer's First  Tale. 
Scholar-Gypsy  and  the  Forsaken  Merman. 
Transcript  from  Euripides  (Balaustion's  Adventure). 
Ginone,  the  Morte  D'Arthur,  The  Miller's  Daughter,  and  a 

Selection  from  the  Songs. 


10  ENGLISH. 


Select  Essays  of  Macaulay 

Edited   by   Samuel    Thurber,  Girls'   High   School,  Boston.     i2mo, 
205  pages;  cloth,  70  cents;   boards,  50  cents. 

THIS  selection  comprises  the  essays  on  Milton,  Bunyan, 
Johnson,  Goldsmith,  and  Madame  D'Arblay,  thus  giv- 
ing illustrations  both  of  Macaulay's  earlier  and  of  his  later 
style.  It  aims  to  put  into  the  hands  of  high  school  pupils  speci- 
mens of  English  prose  that  shall  be  eminently  interesting  to 
read  and  study  in  class,  and  which  shall  serve  as  models  of  clear 
and  vigorous  writing. 

The  subjects  of  the  essays  are  such  as  to  bring  them  into 
close  relation  with  the  study  of  general  English  literature. 

The  annotation  is  intended  to  serve  as  a  guide  and  stimulus  to 
research  rather  than  as  a  substitute  for  research.  The  notes, 
therefore,  are  few  in  number.  Only  when  an  allusion  of  Macau- 
lay  is  decidedly  difficult  to  verify  does  the  editor  give  the  result 
of  his  own  investigations.  In  all  other  cases  he  leads  the  pupil 
to  make  investigation  for  himself,  believing  that  a  good  method 
in  English,  as  in  other  studies,  should  leave  as  much  free  play 
as  possible  to  the  activity  of  the  learner. 

Historical  Essays  of  Macaulay 

Edited  by  Samuel  Thurber.    i2mo,  cloth,  394  pages.    Price,  80  cents. 

THIS  selection  includes  the  essays  on  Lord  Clive,  Warren 
Hastings,  and  both  those  on  the  Earl  of  Chatham.  The 
text  in  each  case  is  given  entire.  A  map  of  India,  giving  the 
location  of  places  named  in  the  essays,  is  included. 

The  notes  are  intended  to  help  the  pupil  to  help  himself. 
They  do  not  attempt  to  take  the  place  of  dictionary,  encyclo- 
paedia, and  such  histories  as  are  within  the  reach  of  ordinary 
students  in  academies  or  high  schools.  When  an  allusion  is  not 
easily  understood,  a  note  briefly  explains  it,  or  at  least  indicates 
where  an  explanation  may  be  found.  In  other  cases  the  pupil 
is  expected  to  rely  on  his  own  efforts,  and  on  such  assistance  as 
his  teacher  may  think  wise  to  give. 


ENGLISH.  11 


Select  Essays  of  Addison 


With  Macaulay's  Essay  on  Addison.      Edited  by  Samuel  Thurber, 
i2mo,  320  pages ;  cloth,  So  cents ;  boards,  50  cents. 

THE  purpose  of  this  selection  is  to  interest  young  students  in 
Addison  as  a  moral  teacher,  a  painter  of  character,  a  hu- 
morist, and  as  a  writer  of  elegant  English.  Hence  the  editor 
has  aimed  to  bring  together  such  papers  from  the  Spectator,  the 
Tilth?',  the  Guardian,  and  the  FreeJiolder  as  will  prove  most 
readable  to  youth  of  high  school  age,  and  at  the  same  time  give 
something  like  an  adequate  idea  of  the  richness  of  Addison's 
vein.  The  De  Coverley  papers  are  of  course  all  included. 
Papers  describing  eighteenth-century  life  and  manners,  espe- 
cially such  as  best  exhibit  the  writer  in  his  mood  of  playful  satire, 
have  been  drawn  upon  as  peculiarly  illustrating  the  Addisonian 
humor.  The  tales  and  allegories,  as  well  as  the  graver  moraliz- 
ings,  have  due  representation,  and  the  beautiful  hymns  are  all 
given. 

Professor  Henry  S.  Pancoast,  Philadelphia :  I  am  delighted  to  find  that 
you  are  continuing  the  work  so  well  begun  in  the  Macaulay.  I  read  the 
Introduction  with  much  interest,  and  with  a  fresh  sense  of  the  importance 
and  value  of  the  method  of  teaching  you  are  working  to  advance. 

William  C.  Collar,  Principal  of  Latin  School,  Roxbury,  Mass. :  I  suppose 
the  best  thing  I  can  say  is  that  your  book  will  go  into  our  list  of  books  to 
be  read,  and  that  it  will  have  a  permanent  place  in  my  school.  I  believe 
with  all  my  heart  in  your  principles  of  annotation,  and  think  you  are  doing 
a  great  work  for  the  schools, 

Macaulay's  Essays  on  Milton  and  Addi= 
son 

i2mo,  boards.     Price,  30  cents. 

THESE  are  reprinted  from  Mr.  Thurber*s  Select  Essays  of 
iMacaietay  and  Select  Essays  of  Addison,  without  any 
change-  in  the  numbering  of  the  pages.  Strongly  and  attrac- 
tively bound,  and  printed  on  good  paper,  this  book  forms  the 
cheapest  and  best  edition  of  these  two  essays  for  school  use. 


12  ENGLISH. 


frving's  Sketch=Book 


With    notes   by  Professor  Elmer  E.  Wentworth,  Vassar  College. 
i2mo,  cloth,  426  pages.     Price,  60  cents. 

THIS  is  the  best  and  cheapest  edition  of  the  complete  Sketch- 
Book  now  before  the  pubhc.  The  paper  and  press-work 
are  excellent,  and  the  binding  is  strong  and  handsome.  In  his 
notes  the  editor  has  endeavored  to  stimulate,  not  supersede, 
thought  on  the  part  of  the  pupil,  and  so  to  prepare  him  to  read 
with  profit  and  enjoyment  other  literary  masterpieces.  What 
success  has  been  attained  in  this  direction  may  be  estimated 
from  the  following  extracts  from  letters  recently  received  from 
those  who  have  examined  the  book. 

Professor   Wm.   Lyon   Phelps,    New   Hav-n,    Conn. :    Please   accept  my 
thanks  for  your  handsome  edition  of  the   Sketch-Book,  which  seems  to 
me  surprisingly  cheap  in  price  for  such  a  book. 
Professor    Chas.    F.    Richardson,    Dartmouth    College^   Hanover.,  N.H. : 
I  thank  you  for  sending  me  Mr.  Wentworth's  well-annotated  edition  of 
Irving's  Sketch-Book,  a  pleasure  to  the  eye  and  the  hand,  and  sure  to 
aid  in  the  enjoyment  of  an  American  classic. 
Professor  Wm.  H.  Brown,  Johns  Hopkins  University  :  I  have  to  thank  you 
for  a  copy  of  your  very  neat  edition  of  Irving's  classic  Sketch-Book.     I 
shall  call  the  attention  of  my  classes  to  it  and  its  exceeding  cheapness. 
Irving  H.  Upton,  Principal  of  High  School,  Po7'fsmonth,N.H.:  I  examined 
it   with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure  arising  from  two  points  in  particular. 
First,  from  the  remarkable  execution  of  the  book  mechanically  and  typo- 
graphically; and,  secondly,  because  of  the  judicious  absence  of  useless  notes. 
Professor  T.  W.  Hunt,  Princeton   College,  N.J. :  Thanks  for  Wentworth's 
neat  and  convenient  edition  of  the  Sketch-Book.      Had  I  seen  it  earlier,  I 
should  have  inserted  it  in  our  catalogue  for  1 893-1 894. 
Professor  Wm.  E.  Smyser,  De  Patiw  Ujiiversity,  Greencastle,  Ind.r  I  am 

very  much  pleased  with  the  book  in  every  particular. 
Professor  Edward  A.  Allen,  University  of  Missouri,  Columbia,  Mo.: 
Please  accept  my  thanks  for  a  copy  of  Wentworth's  Irving's  Sketch- 
Book,  which  strikes  me  as  the  best  school  edition  I  have  seen. 
Professor  0.  B.  Clark,  Ripon  College,  Ripon,  Wis. :  Permit  me  to  congratu- 
late you  on  the  beauty  of  the  volume,  on  its  cheapness,  and,  above  all,  on 
the  scholarly  taste,  modest  reserve,  and  encouraging  suggestiveness  of  the 
notes.  Reading  and  study  are  made  to  beget  reading  and  study,  and  the 
appetite  will  surely  grow  with  what  it  feeds  on. 


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